


Don't Viscount Me Out

by hannahrieu



Series: Untitled Nobility [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Downton Abbey inspired, Earls and marquesses and such, M/M, Smut, Some Plot, john used to be a valet, victorianlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-11-29 22:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11450223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrieu/pseuds/hannahrieu
Summary: John returns to Land's End at the request of Mycroft Holmes, The Earl of Cornwall. Sherlock has been dead for almost two years...or has he?This is the first of eight chapters that will be posted in the coming days, the end of a four part series I started last year called "Untitled Nobility". It's a quick read, starting with "It'll Earl be Okay", inspired by my Downton Abbey obsession with Mr. Bates's limp. The story grew from there and sort of took on a life of it's own.





	1. Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thank you for taking the time to read my stuff!

_He’s alive. ___

___Sherlock is alive. ____ _

____John took a step back from the window. He could feel the blood rushing to his face as his arms and legs went cold._ _ _ _

____He took too many deep breaths in a row. His lungs refused to deflate. His vision swam as he fell against the table. He heard something break._ _ _ _

____“Dr. Watson!”_ _ _ _

He couldn’t stop himself from falling. He fell and fell and then…

____Everything went black._ _ _ _

____….._ _ _ _

____John awoke in the blue and gold guest bedroom. His shoes and jacket had been removed, but he was lying on top of the duvet. He glanced over at the fire, which was dwindling in the hearth. The room had taken on the familiar landscape of evening time, just after dusk. He forced himself up from the bed._ _ _ _

____Unexpected movement by the fire gave the doctor a start. He crept closer to see that someone was slumped in one of the large chairs next to the hearth._ _ _ _

____When John realized who it was, he smiled._ _ _ _

____“Siger,” he whispered. “Arise, awake!”_ _ _ _

____The fourteen year-old stirred and slowly opened his eyes. He looked up, and upon recognizing John, grinned widely._ _ _ _

____“Uncle John,” he said sleepily. “I thought you were never going to wake up.”_ _ _ _

____“Come here, you behemoth,” John said softly, opening his arms wide._ _ _ _

____Siger lept up and embraced his uncle, realizing he was now at least an inch taller than the good doctor. He laughed as he pulled away._ _ _ _

____“Are you getting shorter?”_ _ _ _

____“Quite possibly, yes.”_ _ _ _

____The two males giggled a bit in quiet affection. John took in the sight of the boy he considered his nephew, and saw the signs of the man emerging. He couldn’t have imagined being prouder if Siger was his own son._ _ _ _

____“Look at you,” he said warmly. “I haven’t seen you since -”_ _ _ _

____He had almost said Sherlock’s funeral._ _ _ _

____Memories from earlier in the afternoon came flooding back into John’s mind. He swayed a little as Siger eased his uncle down into the chair._ _ _ _

____“Sig,” he murmured. “Is it true? Is it...is he -”_ _ _ _

____Siger held on to his uncle’s hand and squeezed hard._ _ _ _

____“Uncle John, it’s not what you think,” he said calmly. “It’s a bit - complicated.”_ _ _ _

____The good doctor shook his head._ _ _ _

____“I don’t understand.”_ _ _ _

____Siger sat down cross legged next to the fire. He gazed at John sympathetically._ _ _ _

____“Is it really him?”_ _ _ _

____His nephew tucked a lock of dark curly hair behind his ear._ _ _ _

____“He is uncle Sherlock, but -,” he hesitated, as if searching for the just the right words to convey his point. “Uncle John, you know how, before, Sherlock knew everything about everyone just by looking at them? And how he seemed to know something about everything?”_ _ _ _

____“Yes, of course.”_ _ _ _

____“Well, Sherlock is still exactly like that, only - he’s different. He doesn’t shout at Father like he used to. When he came back, he didn’t even recognize us. We had to tell him who we were!”_ _ _ _

____John’s confusion slid quickly into a volatile frustration. He decided, that for his own sanity, he needed to stick to the facts. A technique, he acknowledged, he’d learned from Sherlock._ _ _ _

____“When did Sherlock arrive at Land’s End?”_ _ _ _

____Siger worried his lower lip as he thought long and hard. “It was before Christmas, so..six months ago?”_ _ _ _

____Siger correctly interpreted the look of anger that flashed across John’s face, because he quickly added:_ _ _ _

____“Father didn’t want to disturb you, John. He said you’d found happiness again. He didn’t want to take that away from you.”_ _ _ _

____John pressed his hands between his knees to keep them from trembling._ _ _ _

____“Why, then, did he bloody bring me back now?”_ _ _ _

____Before Siger could answer, a shadow fell over the chair as the Earl himself walked quietly into the room. Siger quickly stood up._ _ _ _

____“Father, I was going to come get you, but we began talking - “_ _ _ _

____“It’s quite alright, son. It’s good for you to catch up with your uncle John.” Mycroft took a seat parallel to the doctor, facing the fire. “Your mother, however, has been looking for you all afternoon. Please see to her wishes. She’s in the library.”_ _ _ _

____“Yes, sir,” Siger replied. Before going, he leaned forward and gave John another long hug._ _ _ _

____“See you soon, Uncle John.”_ _ _ _

____“Thank you, Siger,” John managed._ _ _ _

____Both men watched the boy leave. The door clicked shut behind him, and silence enveloped the room._ _ _ _

____John swallowed, his emotions violent and giving him a sour stomach._ _ _ _

____“I’m not sure what you heard…”_ _ _ _

____“I heard enough,” answered the Earl. “Siger is right. It isn’t what you think.”_ _ _ _

____John answered with a rude grunt._ _ _ _

____“I just want to know why am I here,” he managed to say, through clenched teeth._ _ _ _

____The Earl leaned back into his chair, as if settling in for a long night. John twisted and turned in his, hoping at some point he would have the excuse to get up, to leave Land’s End, to go home and bury himself in Felipe’s chest and never come back._ _ _ _

____“Sherlock tried to kill himself,” admitted Mycroft. “The staff found him in her ladyship's bathtub, soaking in his own blood.”_ _ _ _

____It was suddenly hard to breath again, as if the words had dealt him a physical blow._ _ _ _

____“When?” he whispered._ _ _ _

____“I wrote to you immediately, right after it happened.”_ _ _ _

____“But Siger said he’s been here for six months.”_ _ _ _

____“He has. It’s only been in the last two that he’s tried to end his life. On two separate occasions...of that I am aware.”_ _ _ _

____John lowered his head into his open palms, wiping his face roughly as he sat up._ _ _ _

____He tried to speak, but his voice came out rough and incoherent. He coughed to clear his throat._ _ _ _

____“Why,” he croaked. “Why did he do it? Why did he stay away, for so long? Was he kidnapped? Hurt?”_ _ _ _

____When Mycroft didn’t answer right away, John pushed forward in his chair._ _ _ _

____“Did he think it was funny? Letting us mourn while he gallivanted around Europe chasing criminals?” His blood began to boil. “That’s it, isn’t it. Always running off, leaving me behind. ‘Oh do keep up, John’. Bastard. Utter bastard. I ought to -...”_ _ _ _

____“John,” Mycroft said sternly. “Do keep your temper until you know all the facts.”_ _ _ _

____“Bloody spill it, then, Mycroft,” John snapped back, each word dripping with venom._ _ _ _

____The Earl leaned back and kept his composure, though the sharp look in his eyes was evidence that he was growing impatient with John’s rude demands. He took a deep breath._ _ _ _

____“Not quite a year ago, I received a disturbing letter from Lady Katherine. She was insistent she’d seen Sherlock in Germany, in the British consulate in Munich.”_ _ _ _

____John managed a nod._ _ _ _

____“Go on.”_ _ _ _

____“Lady Katherine spoke with Sherlock at length, but Sherlock gave no indication he recognized her. You remember how those two carried on, full of inside amusements and quips. She was one of the few true friends Sherlock ever had.”_ _ _ _

____Mycroft was right. John knew Lady Katherine cared for Sherlock, and Sherlock always lit up anytime the woman was nearby. John had always been a tiny bit jealous of her, though he knew each felt nothing but friendship toward the other._ _ _ _

____“She knew he was our Sherlock. It was impossible for him not to be, but he insisted his name was James H. Wagner. She finally ran out of things to keep him distracted, and he said he had to return to his duties. Ironically, he had found work via the British government as an interpreter.”_ _ _ _

____“James Wagner,” murmured John. “How the hell did he come up with that?”_ _ _ _

____“I can actually somewhat explain that morsel,” stated Mycroft. “After meeting with Lady Katherine in person to discuss the strange occurrence, I sent Major Lestrade to the consulate to investigate the matter. Gregory came back with the same conclusion as the duchess; that he was indeed Sherlock, but his memories were not there. Both Lady Katherine and Gregory noted Sherlock had a tremendous scar that began at the corner of his left eye that ran all the way back into his hairline.”_ _ _ _

____John’s eyes went wide in disbelief._ _ _ _

____“Are you telling me Sherlock survived, but sustained injury from his run in with Moriarty? That he was out there, alone, away all this time because he couldn’t remember?”_ _ _ _

____John shook his head._ _ _ _

____“How is that possible? How did he live?”_ _ _ _

____Where did he go?_ _ _ _

____Mycroft pressed his lips together, forming a thing, straight line._ _ _ _

____“These details Sherlock has been unable - or unwilling - to recall. I eventually went to Munich myself. I stayed for almost two months, convincing him to come home. I showed him photographs, writings, his casework...nothing registered. He was still Sherlock; he could deduce where I was from, what I did for a living, what I’d eaten for breakfast the day before. But he couldn’t recall me, his own flesh and blood.”_ _ _ _

____John’s emotions began to cool, a sadness settling over his anger like a light snow._ _ _ _

____“How devastating.”_ _ _ _

____“Yes,” admitted the Earl. “I asked him, why James H. Wagner? And he pulled your handkerchief from his pocket.”_ _ _ _

____“My handkerchief?”_ _ _ _

____The Earl cracked a smile._ _ _ _

____“Sherlock had assumed it was his own, so he made an educated guess by the initials, using statistics and formulas he still had floating around in his head. He concluded with 87 percent certainty that his name was James Harold Wagner.”_ _ _ _

____John actually managed a chuckle._ _ _ _

____“Mrs. Hudson’s handkerchiefs,” he mumbled, his chest feeling warm at the memory._ _ _ _

____The idea that Sherlock was alive began to blossom in John’s chest. Tears pricked the backs of his eyes as a flood of emotion swamped his rational thought. What did this mean?_ _ _ _

____“Mycroft,” he said softly. “Why the suicide attempts?”_ _ _ _

____The Earl sighed deeply, as if the weight of the world sitting steadily on his narrow shoulders suddenly became a lot heavier._ _ _ _

____“At first, Sherlock thrived. After I convinced him to return to Land’s End, he seemed - happy - to have people around who cared and looked after him. He absorbed everything he could get his hands on that involved memory technique, brain mapping, loss of memory. He convinced himself that if he was clever enough, his memories would return. He would say they were ‘simply barred in a secret room in the palace of his mind’. That he would find the correct key to unlock the door.”_ _ _ _

____John had to smile. “Of course, he compares his mind to a palace.”_ _ _ _

____“Of course,” replied Mycroft._ _ _ _

____John’s smile faded._ _ _ _

____“The memories...they never came back, did they.”_ _ _ _

____The Earl looked down at his pristine jacket, and proceeded to move some imaginary lint from the lapel._ _ _ _

____“One day, he just seemed to give up. He stopped eating, wouldn't get out of bed. We thought, he’s worked so hard, let’s leave him be. Not two days later, Molly found him in my wife’s bathtub. He’d sliced himself open. The intent was clear.”_ _ _ _

____John remained silent for a while, unsure what to say, of how to react. His instinct to protect had always driven him when it came to Sherlock, but his loyalties now were deeply embedded with his Spaniard. Even knowing Sherlock was alive, and Felipe ignorant of the fact, felt like utter betrayal to John._ _ _ _

____Mycroft, intuitively, realized John’s hesitation._ _ _ _

____“John, I know writing to you...none of this is fair. To you, to me, and especially to Sherlock. I am not asking you to stay. I know how long and hard you mourned the loss of my brother. If you have started your life over in Spain, I encourage you to go back to it.”_ _ _ _

____Mycroft knelt down in front of the hearth, taking the poker and stoking the embers. A small flame flickered from ashes and grew until it burned steadily under the open flue._ _ _ _

____“All I ask is that you talk with him. Look for treatments, methods, options we haven’t thought of, and then give me your honest medical opinion.” Mycroft’s face unexpectedly distorted in pain. “I don’t wish to sent him to sanatorium,” he whispered._ _ _ _

____The Earl half-turned toward John, his cheeks undeniably glistening._ _ _ _

____“You’ve always brought miracles with you, Dr. Watson. I suppose I’m selfishly holding out for one more.”_ _ _ _

____The Earl produced his own handkerchief from his front pocket (with the red letters of his initials stitched in the lower right hand corner) and wiped his eyes thoroughly._ _ _ _

____He then stood up and cleared his throat, tugging on his bespoke jacket._ _ _ _

____“I trust you’ll join us for dinner, Dr. Watson?”_ _ _ _

____“Of course, m’lord,” John answered, rising from the chair._ _ _ _

____“Very good. I assume your white tie is still in Sherlock’s room. I’ll ask Anderson to stop by.”_ _ _ _

____John bowed slightly as the Earl of Cromwell left the room._ _ _ _

____“M’lord,” he said softly._ _ _ _

____……._ _ _ _

____John heard the dinner gong just as he finished dressing. He walked toward the grand stairway, catching a glance of one of the lady’s maids taking the long way around, disappearing into the narrow doorway that led down into the servant’s hall. He’d taken those narrow steps thousands of times - many more than he had taken the wide, opulent set before him. He made his way downstairs to the library, trying to ignore the nervousness in his belly._ _ _ _

____Sherlock was joining them for dinner._ _ _ _

____Irene was alone, sitting on one of the duplicate sofas as John entered the bright open space. She rose up to greet him warmly, giving him brief, alternating kisses along his cheek._ _ _ _

____“John, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” she said sincerely. “Come, try my new wine. You can give me your vineyard owner’s opinion.”_ _ _ _

____Dimmock immediately presented John with a tray holding multiple champagne glasses. John took one, giving the footman a grateful look._ _ _ _

____“Where are they?” John said softly to Irene._ _ _ _

____“They were supposed to have come down already,” she murmured. She gripped his arm and squeezed. “Mycroft and I are grateful you came, John. It had been going reasonably well, until -”_ _ _ _

____“Dr. Watson!” Siger shouted as he burst into the room. “Look at what Uncle Sherlock gave me!”_ _ _ _

____“Siger,” scolded Irene. “Lower your voice.”_ _ _ _

____“Sorry, mother,” he replied._ _ _ _

____He held up a Bunsen burner._ _ _ _

____“He said I could use it for experiments,” Siger said happily._ _ _ _

____“As I mentioned twice, Siger, you’ll need to attach it to a separate gas line in order for it to work properly.”_ _ _ _

____The sound of the deep, honeyed baritone behind him made John’s entire mind go haywire._ _ _ _

____He felt his heart squeeze inside his chest as he felt the blood flood his face again. He forced himself to breath slowly, in and out._ _ _ _

____Passing out a second time in the course of one day would not do._ _ _ _

____“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said carefully. “I would like you to meet my brother, Sherlock Holmes.”_ _ _ _

____John turned, forcing himself to look up as he gripped the glass in his hand so tightly he wondered how it had not shattered._ _ _ _

____Sherlock, his Sherlock, stood before him, dressed in the white tie and dinner jacket John had seen him wear so many times before, during Christmases and weddings and local celebrations. His hair was different; dark, outrageous curls flopped over his forehead, opposite of his slicked back, straight style from before. It covered most of the dark red scar Mycroft had mentioned, but John’s gaze followed it automatically from underneath his left eye until it disappeared into his scalp._ _ _ _

____Sherlock’s sharp, cerulean eyes flashed with an unreadable emotion as he observed the good doctor’s reaction._ _ _ _

____“Mr. Holmes, m’lord,” answered John, giving a slight bow in respect. “Pleasure.”_ _ _ _

____“We knew each other, from before.”_ _ _ _

____John blinked._ _ _ _

____“Yes,” he managed, clearing his throat. “We - knew each other.”_ _ _ _

____Roberts announced dinner. Though the immediate Holmes family began to move toward the dining room, Sherlock’s focus remained deadlocked on John._ _ _ _

____John, used to the scrutiny coming from those gorgeous, crystal eyes, comfortably allowed himself to be dissected. His body language unconsciously shifted to a parades rest as he set the champagne glass on the side table and clasped his hands firmly behind his back._ _ _ _

____The silence in the room became deafening. The Holmes family barely drew breath, hoping the evening was not about to end in another disaster._ _ _ _

____John watched as Sherlock’s face unexpectedly twitched with an emotion he could only identify as a mixture of sadness and frustration. He instantly broke eye contact, and turned toward the others._ _ _ _

____“My apologies, but I have suddenly lost my appetite,” he said softly. “I’ll retire to my room for the evening. Dr. Watson,” he said, nodding his head in respect, though his gaze did not rise above the good doctor’s chest._ _ _ _

____He turned and nodded apologetically at Mycroft, Irene and Siger as he walked quickly out of the room._ _ _ _

____Irene took John’s arm, tucking herself into his elbow._ _ _ _

____“Escort me to dinner, Dr. Watson,” she said kindly. “Let us catch up. We can tackle these matters after a good night’s rest.”_ _ _ _

____John managed a small, grateful smile._ _ _ _

____“M’lady,” he said, as he escorted her out of the library and down the hall to dinner._ _ _ _


	2. Simpson's Pub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a breakthrough with Sherlock's treatment.

Early the next morning, John walked down to the village to personally post his letter to Felipe. He wanted the Spaniard to be aware of Sherlock’s...reemergence, as soon as possible. 

If he thought Felipe would actually come, he’d forward a sum for his travel. With the vines at a crucial point in the growing season, and the Spaniard’s disdain for the English countryside, there was little chance of convincing the man to leave Spain for England. John said so in the letter, knowing his lover would see straight through the excuse. Both men knew he could come home at any time, yet if loyalties were being threatened, it was still too early to tell.

The dinner from the night before had been calm and anticlimactic. As John suspected, Sherlock was a regular at dinner in the beginning, but had failed more times than not to appear in recent weeks.

After his obligatory drink with Mycroft, he chose to spend his evening downstairs. It felt good to catch up with Dimmock and Molly. Both had recently received promotions, and John got the impression that each seemed rather infatuated with the other.

When it came time to retire for the evening, John pulled Molly aside.

“Would any of Mrs. Hudson’s needlework have been stored away?” he asked. “I’m specifically looking for her handkerchiefs she used to embroider for Sherlock. I have stacks of them in London, but I'd like them on hand now, if possible.” 

“I’m not sure,” said Molly. “Let me look in the cedar chest in the housekeeper’s room. We’ve keepsakes of all kinds in there.”

“Wonderful,” he said as he kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, Molly,”

He woke to a small package on his bedside, wrapped in string. Inside were stacks of Mrs Hudson’s handkerchiefs, with Sherlock's folded on top.

On the way back from the village, John stepped out of the way of wagons full to the brim with milk bottles, or flowers, or summer hay. The smells of the countryside brought memories of his and Sherlock’s early days, when they used to ride together from morning until tea time. John cherished those moments. He thought of them often during dark times, warm memories that helped him cope.

The thought that Sherlock may no longer have memories of comfort filled John with a sudden, intense sadness. What does one do, in times of loss and distress, when your mind is no longer a familiar place? 

As John turned the corner Land’s End, he caught sight of the stables off to his right. 

  _Would riding around the estate help Sherlock remember? ___

He watched one of the stable boys lead Sherlock’s old mare around the posts. Greyed and obviously arthritic, she stumbled forward in pain, unable to enjoy her daily exercise. The sight made John wince in sympathy.

  _Maybe not everything is worth remembering... ___

“That’s it,” John mumbled.

“Why must he remember?”

He stepped off the beaten path and veered back towards the stables. 

 

….

 

Sherlock answered the door promptly. John had only knocked once. 

As he stepped inside the familiar room, John tried to look around without appearing to do so. He knew it was foolish to even attempt pretense with Sherlock in the room, but it seemed the polite thing to do. 

“Dr. Watson,” said Sherlock kindly. “Please, sit down. Tea?”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes” John answered. His heart was beating like mad, but he was determined to appear calm and collected. He settled in front of the fire while Sherlock rang for service.

“Sorry to drop by unannounced. I just wanted to see how you were fairing.”

“Quite all right, Dr. Watson. Again, please accept my apologies for my behavior yesterday evening,” Sherlock replied sincerely. “I’m given to bouts of brief illness when I push myself too far. My attempts to unlock my memories have proven quite...tedious.”

“Understandable,” replied John, noticing the lack of haughtiness that would usually accompany this admission. “I imagine this has been incredibly difficult for you.”

Sherlock blinked a few times, as if unsure how to respond. 

“I endeavor to be more of myself each day.”

Dimmock entered with the tray. They both took up the steaming cups, gratefully.

“Now, Dr. Watson, you have a proposition,” he said good-naturedly. “How may I be of service?”

“Am I that transparent?”

Sherlock smiled and sipped his tea.

“Alright, then,” John answered. “I used to enjoy riding on this estate, back in the day. I thought you might like to join me.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

Intrigue fluttered over Sherlock’s fine features.

“We used to ride together.”

“Yes.”

“So you believe this would be good for my memory.”

“No, I believe it would be good for my lungs. Not to mention murder on my arse.”

The unexpected profanity made Sherlock choke with surprise into the teacup. He swallowed quickly as to reset his composure.

“I see,” he said, trying not to smile. “Please know, that while I respect your profession- and I’m sure that you’re a fine physician - I am very well read on my condition.” 

He leaned forward earnestly. 

“My brother, Mycroft, worries about me. I’ve had some setbacks. Yet, I feel I am closer than ever to breaking through. With appreciation to your good intentions, a bit of fresh air is not a cure-all.”

John held his teacup to his lips and blew at the steam rolling off the top.

“What if I told you I don’t care beans about your memory?” John took a sip. “That I’d simply like to go riding?”

The shock in the younger man’s eyes lasted only a moment, but John saw the wheels turning in that big brain. Not caring about his lost memories - that thought had never occurred to him. 

John waited patiently, pouring himself more tea as Sherlock considered his request. The taller man stood and again rang for Dimmock. 

“I shall like to go riding with you, Dr. Watson,” he said with confidence. 

The servant must have been nearby, because he appeared within seconds. Sherlock requested the appropriate attire. 

He then turned to John and mumbled good-naturedly:

“Now let us hope for both our sakes I remember how.”

John dared to chuckle as Sherlock’s face broke out into a brilliant smile, both men sharing a moment of warmth in the otherwise drafty room.

…..

Sherlock indeed remembered how to ride, as he easily approached the animal and mounted with ease. The two men rode for hours over the estate, taking in the blue skies and rolling hills, having fun mapping and pointing out the plots and ponds. They came to an open pasture near a creek and dismounted, letting the horses eat and rest in the field. John sat down on a nearby rock and pulled out his canteen and a sandwich. Sherlock eyed the food like he was a man starving.

“I know you didn’t eat dinner, Mr. Holmes. Did you manage breakfast?”

John knowing the answer, offered him half the sandwich. Sherlock took it.

“Did you teach Master Siger how to hook up the Bunsen burner?”

Sherlock nodded, his mouth full of food.

“He’s a smart one, like his father and uncle.” John took a swig from his canteen. “Glad he got his mother’s looks, though.”

Sherlock smiled shyly. He quickly took another bite of the sandwich, as if he was stalling for time so he wouldn’t have to speak.

The two men ate in silence while listening to the sounds of the wind rustle the grass and limbs. John finished his sandwich and slid to the ground, his back reclining against the cool rock. 

“Always knackered after a long ride,” he yawned. “Just a quick kip, and I’ll be ready...”

…...

John awoke to the sound of gentle snoring.

Sherlock had curled up under the oak tree and was sound asleep, his jacket bundled under his head for a pillow.

John knew it was getting late, but he couldn't bring himself to wake him. 

Instead, he watched him sleep.

After realizing Sherlock was alive - actually breathing alive - John had immediately barricaded his emotions, even potential ones, in order to keep a clear head. Some intense anger had punched through along with a bit of sadness, but he had been successful overall in that his brain had chosen to shut down, leaving him passed out cold in the library (of that he was rather embarrassed).

John maintained that barricade. Until now. 

Alone, without prying eyes of an audience and his former partner pacified, he lay there and allowed himself to simply feel. He let his eyes wander over Sherlock’s sleeping body, a body he used to know intimately, fixating on a few wisps of chest hair peaking out from under his loosened shirt. His curls had been swept aside by a well-placed arm, so the scar over his cheekbone was prominent, red and angry. It led deep into his scalp, much deeper that John realized. 

John braced himself for the onslaught of emotions...

...that never came.

Yes, sorrow remained, but even his anger had dissipated. It was then he knew he could never go back. 

Guilt, sadness and relief washed over him. He let the tears slide out of his eyes, blinking to stop the blurriness so he could still watch over the sleeping man before him.

Sherlock was now a patient, desperate for his help. He would do everything within his power to make sure he found a healing path. 

But John knew in his heart that Sherlock awoke, possessing every memory he ever had, that he could not go back to the way things were.

So he stayed there and cried softly into his sleeve, watching as the shadows became long and the sun lowered behind Land’s End in the distance, enduring his final moments of mourning for the man called Sherlock Holmes.

…..

 

John woke Sherlock at the last possible moment for a ride back in the daylight. They handed off the horses to the stable hands and began walking back to Land’s End. 

Sherlock removed his hat and raked his fingers through his curls.

“Are we too late for dinner?”

“Most likely,” John replied. “We could go into town for a drink.”

Sherlock slowed and then stopped. 

“It’s not far,” said John.

“I know.”

John cocked his head and peered at Sherlock. There was just enough light to see the solemn expression on his face

“It was just a suggestion,” John said. “I’m sure Rosie will fix us a plate.”

Sherlock still hesitated. He looked up at Land’s End in the distance, then back toward the village. His hand floated along his scalp, fingers barely touching his scar.

“Is that what worries you?”

Sherlock immediately dropped his hand. He nodded once, obviously embarrassed.

“I understand,” John replied sympathetically. “We could try the village, and if you’re uncomfortable, leave?”

“I do wish to go into town,” he said. 

“Come on, then,” John said kindly, patting him on the back. “I'll buy the first round.”

….

In Simpson’s Pub, glasses that previously held gin slings sat empty next to half-eaten plates. John continued to slurp his pea soup while Sherlock poked at a disappearing pork chop. Both men were waiting impatiently for the next round of drinks, since conversation had been stilted at best. 

Midway through the second round of libations the plates were cleared, so John pulled out the package left for him by Molly earlier that morning. Sherlock watched the doctor carefully unwrap it. 

John laid the handkerchiefs side by side on the table. Sherlock quickly drained his second gin. 

“Mr. Holmes, I assure you, this is leading somewhere,” John said gently. “You must understand, I believe this will help you.”

“I’ve tried many an artifact, tactile and otherwise, to help regain memories-”

“That’s not the point,” John interrupted. “Please, give me two minutes. Then, I'll buy us another round.”

“Alright.”

“Alright,” said John, taking in a deep breath. “What do you know about these handkerchiefs?”

Sherlock’s eyes were drawn to the one in the middle, the initials J.H.W. stitched in blue in the corner. 

“This handkerchief, one similar to it was on my person when I first...awoke.”

John picked up the piece of cloth. 

“Lord Cornwall mentioned in passing that this led you to believe the initials J.H.W. were yours.”

Sherlock grew pink with embarrassment. 

“It seemed - logical, at the time.”

John ran his thumb carefully over the delicate stitching. Mrs. Hudson had used royal blue thread.

“These are my initials, Mr. Holmes.”

He heard the tiny gasp pass through Sherlock’s throat. 

“J. H. Watson?”

“John Hamish Watson.”

John watched the wheels turning, thoughts connecting in Sherlock’s mind as he processed this new information. The bartender slapped another gin down for each man. Sherlock didn’t hesitate, and took a generous swig from his glass.

“And this one is mine,” he said, pointing to the cloth with W.S.S.H. stitched in indigo. 

“Yes. William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

Sherlock, mid-sip, unexpectedly snorted into his glass. 

“My name is rather vazey.”

“It is not vazey. It is a very noble, distinguished name!” 

Sherlock was beginning to display the effects of multiple rounds of gin. John had to admit that he was feeling pretty good himself. 

“Now, Mycroft, on the other hand - ” he heard himself say.

Sherlock giggled...actually _giggled _. John tired and punchy, couldn’t help but join in. Soon both men were giggling like schoolgirls in the middle of the pub, a pile of handkerchiefs between them.__

__“Sorry, I mean Lord Cornwall,” John retracted in an attempt to compose himself. “No disrespect.”_ _

__“Please,” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been so relieved to have someone call me “Mr. Holmes” instead of ‘Sherlock’. Who, in their right mind, would call a child by that name? Especially when they have two other perfectly respectable names to choose from? William, or Scott, each names I could be proud of, not cringe every single time I hear it spoken aloud.”_ _

__John nodded in agreement. A haze was beginning to settle over his brain._ _

__“Why don’t you change it?”_ _

__“Mm?”_ _

__“Your name. Change it. No better time to do it," John said. "You can just tell everyone you forgot."_ _

The two men fell into another fit of giggles. 

Sherlock took the handkerchief from John's grasp. He rubbed the cloth between his fingers, as if studying it carefully. 

“Why would I have your handkerchief in my pocket?” he asked unexpectedly.

John’s laughter trailed off as he thought about the question. Had he been sober, he would have panicked at how fully unprepared he was to discuss the matter. Apart from the actual scandalous facts, John was sure Mycroft had purposely left him out of the narrative that was Sherlock’s life. Why he wasn’t sure, but most likely it was due to his desire to protect his younger brother from becoming overwhelmed. 

“You said we knew each other from before,” Sherlock continued.

“Yes,” John replied. “We were flatmates. In London.”

“Mycroft mentioned my time London, but he did not mention you.”

“Ah, well. He probably thought it not important. I've lived in Spain for quite some time.”

“Married now, I take it.”

“No, not quite.”

“Engaged?”

“No, but there is someone.”

John watched as Sherlock relaxed in his chair, his speech a little slurred, his movements slow and melty. He seemed soft and content. 

“What did I do in London?"

“You were a detective.”

“A detective?”

“Yes,” said John, gladly accepting another tumbler full of gin from the barmaid. “A consulting detective. The only one in the world.”

“How do you know?”

“Know what?”

“That I was the only one in the world.”

John grinned.

“Cause you made it up.” 

He paused to take a sip of his drink.

“You helped the Yard solve murders. Or you’d take on private clients.”

Sherlock leaned back in his seat, his eyes sparkling. He suddenly didn’t seem so drunk.

“Was I any good?”

John smiled warmly. 

“You were the best.”

Sherlock’s face flickered with emotion, but John was too slow to comprehend its meaning. He sunk a little lower in his chair, fist under his chin, remembering.

“Baker Street boys.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s what Mrs. Hudson called us. Her Baker Street boys.” John unwisely took another gulp of his gin. “221B Baker Street.”

Sherlock now appeared completely sober.

“Tell me more about Baker Street, Dr. Watson.”

 

....

The next morning, John awoke with a massive hangover. He remembered bits and pieces of the walk back to Land’s End, but he had no memory of how he ended up in bed.

He dressed and went down to breakfast. Mycroft, Irene, Singer and Sherlock all sat around the table eating toast and eggs. John was shocked to see that Sherlock was bright eyed and bushy tailed, the exact opposite of how a man who had matched him drink for drink should look. John was bloody well convinced the barmaid had emptied the entire bottle between them.

“Good morning, Dr. Watson,” said Mycroft. “How was Simpson’s?”

“Adequate, m’lord,” answered John, as his stomach turned at the sight of sausage.

Irene leaned forward and whispered. “You’re looking a bit peaky, dear. Would you like a bit of dry toast?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and abruptly dropped his fork and knife. 

“Now that we’re all here, I’d like to say something,” he said softly. 

Everyone looked up in surprise. Even the footmen froze.

“I'm extremely grateful for the kindness bestowed upon me upon entering this household,” he said humbly. “I know this has been a tremendously difficult time for you, and there is no doubt that your support is the reason I am still with you.”

Mycroft, unsure how to proceed, took his wife’s hand.

“Sherlock, this is your home. We are your family. We will take care of you, always.”

John was touched at Mycroft’s sentiment. He looked over at Sherlock, who seemed to be struggling with his next words. 

“Mycroft, my brother, my blood, I’m am in your debt, and will always consider myself to be. So please do not take what I say next as any sort of impiety or imprudence against you.” 

Sherlock glanced at John before continuing.

“I respectfully request that I be called William, instead of Sherlock,” he said softly. “It is my name, my first name. I feel this is reasonable to ask of you all."

John’s eyes went wide. He looked over at the Earl, whose jaw was tense. 

“I would also like help moving to London.”

“Certainly not!”

“Mycroft,” Irene whispered, trying to calm her husband.

“You’re moving?” Siger said sadly.

Sherlock looked at his nephew kindly.

“I know this seems sudden,” he said patiently. “But it is imperative that I keep moving forward.”

He looked pleadingly at Mycroft and Irene.

“My memories are gone,” he said. “I must make new ones in order to become...someone.”

A moment of silence filled the breakfast hall.

“But you’re already someone,” Siger said softly. “You’re our someone. You’re Uncle Sherl- William.”

John smiled. His nephew looked on the verge of tears. 

As did his uncle.

Sherlock - William - swallowed to compose himself.

“You’re too kind, my dear Siger,” he said. “But please understand, this decision is made. I will be leaving for London within a fortnight.”

“And where in London, pray tell, are you moving to?” Mycroft asked, glaring at John.

“221B Baker Street,” answered Sherlock. 

The room went deathly quiet. 

“Very well,” said the Earl, breaking the silence. “Please excuse me, I have my letters.”

As Lord Cornwall rose, so did William. Both men bolted from the room, albeit in opposite directions. 

John followed William out of the breakfast room, stopping him before he reached the stairs. 

“Mr. Holmes!” said John. “Where on earth did you get the idea to move to Baker street?”

“From you, of course.”

“Pardon?”

“You invited me to stay with you.”

“I think we both had too much to drink.”

“Yes, you did have quite the haul.”

“So did you.”

William suddenenly looked rather guilty.

“What? You matched me, drink for drink.”

William looked at the floor sheepishly. “I did match you drink for drink, but after the first two, I had the barmaid switch out mine with water.”

“You did what!”

William bit his lip. John had to hand it to him. He really did look remorseful. 

“Mycroft had been lying to me for months about London. I could tell you wanted to tell me the truth.”

John shook his head in disbelief. 

“Bastard. Utter bastard,” John mumbled furiously.

“I really am sorry,” said William. “I feel terrible. I just saw no other way.”

John sized him up. He wanted to hit him, hard.

But the scar. 

The scar was red and gnarled, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“You will help me, won’t you?” William asked. “Move to London?”

John scoffed and glared at Sherlock.

Then turned and bolted up the stairs.


	3. Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes William to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story is going to be longer than five chapters. Hang in there, I've got a lot written and it's coming soon. Please know anything is possible...

John threw open the door to the guest bedroom. He yanked out his bag and began stuffing it with clothes.

Sherlock - now wanting to be called William - cautiously entered the room behind him. 

“Dr. Watson, You must for forgive me. I didn't mean-”

“You didn't mean to trick me? To get me drunk and pump me for information and then just assume I’d follow up on some promise I made about moving you to London? A promise I don’t even remember making?”

John watched William go still. As he turned, he saw the younger man’s face go white as a sheet.

“I beg of you, Dr. Watson, please don’t say that.” He ran a large hand worriedly through his curls. “I realize now my method was unethical and I didn’t think it through. I have been so desperate for information about my life -”

John’s eyes flashed with anger. He pointed a finger in William’s face.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d figure this all a ruse.”

William blinked back at him. 

“A ruse?”

“That’s right,” John seethed. “It’s the same tommy-rot the old Sherlock would pull. Keeping secrets, unilateral decision-making, me ending up the fool.” 

John entered William’s personal space, his nose within centimeters of the man’s chin.

“You’re sure your memories haven’t suddenly returned?”

William wisely didn’t respond, but his crystal eyes filled with shock at what the doctor was insinuating.

John backed away and continued packing.

“Besides, you don’t need me to go to London,” he said, a little more calmly. “You have the money and the inclination.”

He snapped his bag shut and sat it by the door. 

“I’ve got a vineyard to run, a life to live, and I don’t have time for rough talk. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, with an air of finality in his voice. 

William stood still, as if weighing whether or not to argue with him. 

“I am sorry, Dr. Watson. You have my word I’ll never -”

“Enough!” John barked. 

William winced, his shoulders sinking into his already too-thin frame. For a man in his late thirties, he looked young and unsure of himself. He turned towards the door. 

“We were more than flatmates,” William said.

It wasn’t a question. John looked up, either unable or unwilling to escape William’s all-knowing stare, he wasn’t sure. He tried to glare back, indignant in his anger, but his righteousness suddenly lost footing when he saw only hurt and confusion in the younger man’s face. 

When he failed to answer, William looked away, defeated.

“Have a safe trip,” he said softly, and exited the room. 

John visibly shook as he shut the door, his back heavy against the old bulwark. His knees gave way as he slid to the floor. 

Thirty-six hours. He’d been on the premises less than two days and he already felt wrecked. His head throbbed from his hangover, but his stomach was sour with guilt. 

He had chastised William for manipulating him, but hadn’t he done the same? His idea that the former detective didn’t have to recall the memories of his previous life in order to be happy was sound in theory, but were his own intentions pure? If those memories stayed buried, did John’s responsibility end there? 

It was all quite simple, really. John didn’t want to deal with it. With him. Sherlock had been mourned and buried and John had moved on. William was nothing but an inconvenience. A living, breathing, terrible inconvenience.

He resented William for tricking him, but he knew that the younger man’s actions at the pub were not the main cause of his anger. In fact, John was convinced William was truly sorry, words Sherlock would have rarely spoken allowed, especially if it had to do with extracting information he deemed important. 

No, John knew deep down he was angry because William made him remember a life he’d cherished with a man he’d loved in a city he’d conquered. Sherlock the man was dead, but Baker Street lived. The rush of the chase, the adrenaline that came with the underbelly of London, was not unlike a drug for the doctor. Underneath the veneer of stoicism, his brain still cried out for excitement, his blood boiled for something other than the mundane. What if William wanted to pursue the profession of his former self? He had the faculties. The temptation to even daydream about the possibility was overwhelming.

John knew he would have died if it hadn’t been for Mr. Thomas, but Felipe had taught him how to live again. Spain and the vineyard had been an oasis in a desert of hopelessness. At first, the relief of not mourning, to not feel like he was treading water and drowning was euphoric. As that wore off, the beauty of landscape kept him refreshed. And when that waned, sex with Felipe had kept him enthralled. But then, much to his distress, the familiar walls of boredom had begun to close in a bit. He’d fought it. Sometimes daily. Tooth and nail. His impulses needed controlling. He’d have to be a madman to not want what he had with the Spaniard.

He’d made a promise to Felipe to never leave again, and by God, he was going to keep it.

And now, in a drunken stupor, a moment of weakness, he’d promised to take William to Baker Street.

He was so ashamed of himself.

His thoughts drifted to Mycroft’s displeasure at the breakfast table upon hearing his younger brother’s decision to part ways. The Earl had shouldered the brunt of his brother’s recovery only to have it rewarded by at least two suicide attempts. If that happened again, sanitorium was surely what awaited William.

John knew as a doctor he couldn’t allow that to happen to a patient. And even John had to admit, William wasn’t just any patient. Some would say it was his duty to look after him. The fact that law and social norms didn’t allow them to declare it didn’t mean what they’d had together was anything less than a real marriage. 

Yes, John owed it to William to take him to London. He’d settle him in, ask Mr. Thomas to check in on him from time to time. It was going to all work out fine. 

He would be strong enough to leave. To go home to Felipe, where he belonged.

….

A couple of hours later, John stopped stalling and went next door to William’s room. 

It took several knocks before William answered this time. As the door swung open, John was greeted by a set of red rimmed, puffy eyes and a rather red nose.

John cleared his throat. 

“William, I owe you an apology,” he managed. 

William eyed him closely. 

“You do?”

“Yes, I do,” said John. “My anger was misdirected.”

William appeared baffled but remained silent. 

“What did I -” John said, clearing his throat. “What did I actually promise you?”

William blinked, as if a bit wary to speak. 

“You said you would take me to Baker Street and introduce me to Mrs. Turner. That I would be welcome to stay there as long as I like.”

John waited, but William said nothing more.

“That’s all?”

William nodded. 

The room was quiet except for the sounds of Siger shouting at his dog outside on the grounds. John’s heart felt as if it might beat out of his chest.

“I’ll help you move to London,” John said. “I can’t promise anything more than that.”

William, obviously taken off-guard, turned pink. John watched him actually tremble with excitement. 

“We’ll leave as soon as you're ready.”

“Thank you, Dr. Watson,” William said, his voice shaking with emotion. “I am in your debt.”

“Don’t mention it,” he’d muttered. “And call me ‘Watson’.”

“Alright, Watson.”

“Holmes.”

William smiled.

…….

It had been a fortnight since William’s breakfast declaration. Mycroft had reluctantly agreed to fund the trip to London on the promise John was not under any circumstances, to leave William alone 

Mr. Thomas opened the door to 221B and greeted Holmes and Watson warmly as they spilled out of the cab. Marie followed closely behind. Watson observed both seemed rather rosy and vibrant.

“Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Thomas,” said John. “I’d assumed you’d returned to Berwick for the summer.”

Mr. Thomas chuckled and glanced sideways at Mrs. Turner, who was trying to hide her flushed cheeks. 

“I’ve been enjoying the sights, Johnny. Lots to see and do in London.”

John eyed the former footman and his maid for a moment. 

“Yes, of course,” he said knowingly, and left it at that.

Once what seemed to be massive amounts of luggage was unloaded and safely inside, John threw off his coat and hat and sat heavily in his chair, a groan of relief escaping his lips. 

William carefully entered the sitting room. He’d already removed his coat and hat and hung them in the hallway. He seemed nervous but excited. His clear blue eyes darted along every centimeter of the room, as if exploring and cataloguing its contents. He immediately focused solely on the bookshelves, pouring over them as if they were jewels in the king’s crown. 

Mrs Turner returned with a tray. She poured tea for the two men. 

“Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes,” she said kindly. “Welcome home. With your permission, I’d like to start unpacking your things. Mr. Holmes, you will be taking the front bedroom, and Mr. Watson, the back?

“Correct, Mrs. Turner,” John replied. “I appreciate your diligence.”

William immediately lost interested in the books and bolted toward his bedroom. 

“May I? ”he asked, pointing at the door.

“It’s your bedroom,” John muttered, obviously much more interested in sipping his tea.

He sighed at the stack of mail sitting on the table in between the two chairs. He rifled through the pile and began opening letters at random. 

He couldn't’ be sure how long he’d been engrossed in the stack of mail - it was quite a large stack, and he was only ¾ of the way through it when a loud, sharp noise emanated from the front bedroom followed by the unmistakable sound of shattering glass. 

John jumped up from his chair, papers fluttering all over the floor as he bolted toward the bedroom, Mr. Thomas and Marie hot on his heels. 

William stood near the window by the old dressing table, a hand clamped over his forearm. His shirt was torn at the sleeve and was turning redder by the moment. A bit of blood dribbled into the floor. He was not only surrounded by broken glass but submerged in it. Shards of it glistened in his hair and over his shoulders, and John could already make out a couple of tiny cuts bleeding on his cheekbones. 

“The mirror!” Mrs. Turner declared, her hands shielding her cheeks in disbelief. “Mr. Holmes, you could have been killed!”

William’s wits were about him, but his dismay at the situation he found himself in was readily apparent. 

“I dropped something behind the dresser, and I simply moved it to gather it up, when the entire frame came crashing down.”

John shook his head, sighing as he held out his hand to help Wiliam over the shrapnel. “It’s not your fault, William. It wasn’t attached to the dresser. It was removed for - it was removed and not put back properly. I should have warned you.”

Wiliam carefully stepped out of the room and John sat him at one of the few clear spots at the table. He began treating the wound as Mr. Thomas and Mrs. Turner cleaned up. 

Both men sat in silence as John worked and William tried not to let on his arm hurt like hell. 

“Why did you remove it?”

“Mmm?” 

“The mirror,” said William. “Why was it detached from the dresser?”

John threaded the needle. William’s cut was going to need at least 12 stitches. 

“It was for a case,” the good doctor said slowly, his eyes knitted in concentration. 

William hissed as the needle went through his skin. The numbing agent John had used was not very effective. 

“A case...like the one’s he used to solve.”

“We, actually,” answered John automatically. He pondered his response for a bit before attempting another stitch. “Well, no, Sherlock solved them. I just tagged along usually. Wrote my little stories.”

“What stories?” William asked, squirming a bit from the pain.

“Hold still,” murmured John, holding firmly onto the needle. He pinched through William’s reddened skin and his patient grunted in pain.

“I used to write a column for a local paper,” he continued, once the wound began to neatly close. “I saved them if your interested. Sort of a little archive over there on the bookshelf, next to the window.”

“A column of solved crimes?”

“More or less. Stories.”

By the time John had finished with William’s arm, the younger man was nearly drowsy with pain. He offered some laudanum but he refused. 

“I’m actually surprised you offered me opioids.”

“Oh yeah?” John responded, as if indifferent. He wasn’t quite sure what William knew about Sherlock’s past, but he was done volunteering things.

“Mycroft mentioned I was allergic several times.”

“Oh,” answered John. “Yes, you’re quite right. I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

Mrs. Turner emerged with Mr. Thomas from the bedroom. 

“All clean, Mr. Holmes. You should get some rest,” she said, looking down at his arm disapprovingly. “After your long journey and this debacle, you’ll catch an infection if you're not careful.”

“Yes,” mumbled William in response. He was scouring the bookshelves, and pulled out a large, brown cumbersome binder from the bottom shelf by the window. 

Some news articles fell to the ground. He picked one up. 

“The Case of the Three Garridebs,” he read aloud. “This is it?”

“Sounds right,” John said, trying to sound nonchalant. The truth was, his heart was pounding in his chest. The memories of his time spent with Sherlock on cases were the best times of his life. He longed to sift through that book alongside William. 

Instead, he focused on cleaning up and sterilizing his medical kit. 

“Alright if I take in here?”

William had the book under one arm, the other carefully outstretched away from his body. The stitching was perfect, but the wound looked raw and painful. Before John could respond, he ducked inside the room and softly closed the door. 

John didn’t see him for the rest of the evening. 

….

John finished his fifth letter ensuring the Spaniard he would be home before the harvest. 

Including travel time, he’d been gone almost a month. His last couple of letters had been very difficult to write. John wanted no secrets between he and Felipe, but how does one word a letter when it involves reconnecting with an old lover who has come back from the dead? And then to explain you are moving said lover into your London flat and staying with him until he is well? John knew Felipe had the patience of Job, but the situation at hand would test even the most pious. 

It was mid-morning, but William in his room with the door shut, most likely fast asleep. He’d been on a two day ransacking binge of all of Sherlock’s old microscope slides. William had memorized every one and catalogued it accordingly. 

Though presented with multiple opportunities, William had refused to step beyond a two block radius of Baker Street. His excuses were plentiful, even plausible, but it was obvious he was wary of what London had in store for him. It'd driven John to the point of taking up work at the dispensary again just to get out of the house. 

It was half past nine when William began to wane. John had led him into the bedroom and pushed him into the bed, throwing the covers haphazardly over his long legs. 

“Get some sleep, William. You can’t just not sleep.”

“Hmm.”

John had shook his head. Somes things definitely hadn’t changed, he thought. Other things, however, were completely different. 

It was close to noon when the the bell sounded from downstairs. John heard Mrs Turner open the door. 

Familiar footsteps sounded on the stairs as John sealed his letter. 

“Inspector Donovan,” greeted John before looking up. 

The detective inspector entered 221B and extended his hand. John shook it and smiled. 

“Dr. Watson,” Donovan said in return. “I saw Mr. Thomas at the pharmacy. He mentioned you were back in London and asked that I stop by.”

“He did, did he?” John answered. 

John glanced over at Sherlock’s room. The door was shut, but he still signaled the inspector to join him in the second bedroom. Donovan followed him with a look of confused amusement. John closed the door behind them. 

“Did Mr. Thomas happen to mention anything else?”

The inspector’s brows knitted together tightly.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Dr. Watson.”

John ran a hand through his hair as he nodded. 

“Yeah, well, inspector, I’ve got a bit of news. Bit shocking really.”

Donovan gave John a look that he clearly read as “get on with it”. 

“Sherlock survived the fall. In fact, he’s sleeping in the front bedroom as we speak.”

Donovan’s mouth dropped open for a moment, but he quickly pulled it shut.

“How? Where has he been all this time?”

John shook his head. “That we don’t know. Sherlock’s brother, the Earl of Cornwall, found him working at the British consulate in Munich.” He paused. “Donovan, he’s not the same man. He sustained a head injury. I have no idea what happened, but he suffered severe memory loss. He won’t remember who you are.”

Donovan shrugged his shoulders. “That’s no skin off my teeth. Can the man still solve a murder is what I’d like to know.”

John didn’t even try to act indignant by Donovan’s seemingly callous remark. They were both practical men, and they were both thinking the exact same thing.

“He has his faculties. We could give it a try.”

Donovan rubbed his lips with his thumb in thought. 

“Can you bring him by the yard? I’ve got something for him to take a look at. That is, if you think he’s suited for it.”

“Why not?” John admitted, his heart thudding in his chest. 

“Amazing,” mumbled Donovan. “But if anyone could have survived it, it’d be Sherlock.” He turned and pointed toward the door. “Alright if I let myself out?”

“‘Course,” answered John. 

After the inspector left, John swooned. 

_The game was on._


	4. The Golem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Game is On...

The trip to the Yard was… difficult.

When John first mentioned the idea, William seemed amenable. The stories from the old Strand articles seemed to have piqued his interest in sleuthing. John knew he had to be bored out of his mind cooped up in the flat all day.

When the two men stepped into Scotland Yard, the number stares and double takes between William and the fellow officers would have been humorous had the nobleman not been so incredibly self-conscious. Whispers of surprise and disbelief punctuated the small atmosphere, with the word “Sherlock” uttered at least a dozen times.

By the time they made it to Donovan’s office, William was in an obvious state of distress. Sweat poured off his brow as his shoulder’s slumped, and he had turned white as a sheet. 

“You alright?’ whispered John. 

William swallowed audibly. 

“I’m feeling quite ill, actually. I’d like to leave. Out the back door, if there is one.”

John spotted Donovan in the hallway. He waved.

“Be brave, man!” John whispered, as the Inspector approached them. 

“Dr. Watson,” he said. “Mr. Holmes, I’m Detective Inspector Donovan. I’ve got some casework for you if you’re interested.”

Donovan extended his hand, but William managed only a nod. He wiped his large, sweaty palms over his trousers and finally, extended a shaky limb.

The Inspector eyed the nobleman closely as he shook it.

“Are you alright, Mr. Holmes?”

John cleared his throat and stared expectantly up at William, who in return shot the doctor a pained look. 

“Mr. Holmes is very much interested,” he said a bit too loudly. “Right?”

“We’ve worked together before, Detective Inspector,” William managed to say.

Donovan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. 

“We have, Holmes. But Dr. Watson here told me you’ve lost your memory?”

Embarrassment briefly flickered over William’s face. 

“I’ve thoroughly reviewed Dr. Watson’s record of the past cases he solved,” William said. “I am up to date on our history.”

“‘Who solved?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” answered William, glancing at John in confusion. 

“But you’re Sherlock Holmes.”

William’s crystal eyes flicked back and forth between the two men, unsure of how to respond. John held his breath.

Donovan hesitated, as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was getting into, then sighed and stepped into his office. 

“Can’t hurt, can it?” he mumbled, as he picked up a small pile of papers from his desk and handed them to William. 

“How about a serial killer to start?”

…..

The afternoon sun was bright enough it lit up the sitting room without the need for lamplight. John pretended to read the newspaper, but his stare kept meandering over to the stack of papers on the end table that contained information about a serial killer, a strangler. William had read through the information and summarily had a panic attack, in which John had forced him to sit for several minutes with his head between his knees. 

“Do you really think I’m ready for this?” asked William quietly. 

“Of course you are,” John answered, handing him a hot cup of tea. “Drink this.”

William obeyed, but he grimaced as he swallowed.

“There’s no sugar.”

“Your consuming entirely too many sweets. Drink your tea.”

William obeyed, but still couldn’t cover a small twitch as the tea hit his tongue.

“I was thinking,” he said softly. “Maybe I could work part time with the grocer on the corner.”

“Grocer...the American?” John said incredulously. “Whatever for!”

“He said he’d hire me to manage his inventory. Plus…”. William looked away almost shyly. “He has bees. In the back lot. Hives.”

“Bees.”

“He sells fresh honey to all the bakeries in a three block radius. I’ve been studying bees for quite some time, ever since…” William stopped himself, as if forcing himself to stop rambling and make a proper point. “I think I can double his honey output just by configuring the placement of the hives. You see, the bees need access to the plants in the park, so -“

“Donovan just handed us a serial killer, and you want to work with bees?”

William sat down his tea cup and walked over to the large binder he’d placed back on the bookshelf some weeks before. He flipped through the pages and began to read aloud: 

_“‘I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Watson,’ said he. ‘When your round is a short one you walk, and when it is a long one you use a hansom. As I perceive that your boots, although used, are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are at present busy enough to justify the hansom.’_ You wrote this, correct?”

“Yes,” John answered slowly, willing his patience to linger.

William continued to read aloud:

_“It is one of those instances where the reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his neighbour, because the latter has missed the one little point which is the basis of the deduction. The same may be said, my dear fellow, for the effect of some of these little sketches of yours, which is entirely meretricious, depending as it does upon your retaining in your own hands some factors in the problem which are never imparted to the reader.”_

He crumpled and threw the paper to the floor. John cringed, as it was his only copy of that particular adventure.

“His detachment and method are admirable. Yet you write of him as though a legend.” 

He opened up a sketch of Mr. Holmes, clad in his cape and deerstalker, and peered at it critically. 

“Is that how you felt about him?”

The doctor shook his head. “I was writing for my readers. I made him more dramatic, exaggerated his tendencies to use logic and reason over emotion.”

William’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”

John motioned for William to sit. In a rare move of his former self, he refused, standing tall and folding his arms across his chest. 

“Meaning!” John answered, more emphatically than he intended. “Sherlock was...He was my best friend, my partner, my…” John felt the flush creeping into his cheeks. “He was bloody brilliant. He could see things others couldn't, and he was the wisest man I've ever known. But he was also a human being, and he had his faults, as we all do.”

William buried his hands deep in the pockets of his housecoat, a shadow of worry tinting the unease already etched into his face. 

“I'm not like him, you know.”

“No one expects you to be.”

The words were so hollow they almost echoed inside the small sitting room. John cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Of course, if you’d rather keep bees - ”

“No.”

William dipped his head and drew in a deep breath. He picked up the stack of papers. 

“We’ll begin with Mrs Tupplebottom. She obviously has motive.”

“A woman?” John asked, grinning.

“Improbable, but not impossible, Watson.”

…..

The room smelled of varnish, soap and old paper, and John was trying very hard not to sneeze. He held his sleeve to his nose as he huddled alongside William behind the greeter desk at the British Museum of Natural History. 

William was convinced the strangler was methodically working his way through employees of the museum to steal the Holy Thorn Reliquary, a piece that had just arrived from the collections of the now deceased Baron de Ferdinand Rothschild. William had greased the palm of the night guard on duty, and they were awaiting his signal as soon as the perpetrator was on the scene. 

They had been waiting an awfully long time, however, and William was growing uneasy. He mumbled something about how “he should have been here already” just as John removed the sleeve from his nose, and a sneeze, catching him by surprise, caused an echo across the large hall. John awaited William's chastising remarks that never came. 

When he looked up, William was gone. 

John caught a glimpse of the man hightailing it towards the main display case where the reliquary was kept. He shot off after him, grabbing the lantern as he went. 

He heard a shout and a scuffle, and upon shining the light on the display case, saw William in hand to hand combat with a monster seven feet tall and a face that looked like something out of a Mary Shelley novel.

William managed to latch onto the thing’s neck and hang from his back, but was flung off to the floor. John reached for his gun, but no sooner had he pulled it the strangler knocked it from his hand and it skittered across the waxed floor. Giant hands yanked William to the floor, and those long fingers wrapped easily around his delicate throat. 

John charged for the gun as he heard William gasp for air. His legs kicked the ground for leverage as the monster leaned in and squeezed. John managed to have the gun in his hand and cocked in seconds and leaned onto the strangler’s back, the gun held firmly at the base of that thick, pasty neck. 

“Let him go,” John growled. “Or I’ll blow your brains out.”

The thing grunted and released William, who quickly rolled away, choking and sobbing. 

He backed up, the gun still pointed directly at the perpetrator’s head as it turned. John could finally see the monster was actually a man, but his height, odd shaped bald head and squinty eyes made him seem alien. 

“Easy now,” John commanded. “Who are you?”

The man glared at him and said nothing. 

“He’s…” William managed, his voice hoarse. “Oscar Dzundza.”

The strangler didn’t acknowledge William’s declaration - he just continued to glare at the gun pointed at him.

“Hired assassin. Known as The Golem,” William continued. 

John heard voices outside the room. He turned, letting his guard down for a just a moment, and that’s all Oscar Dzundza needed. 

He heard William shout his name as the gun as knocked out of his hand, and the next thing he knew, he was lying flat on his back on the museum floor with the wind completely knocked out of him. 

He heard footsteps, and a scuffle, and suddenly, William’s voice in his ear.

“Watson, are you alright?” he croaked. 

John’s lungs seized. Pain shot through him and made him groan as if he were dying. 

“Oh, John!” William whispered. “Please be alright.” 

“He’s getting away,” he whispered. 

“Here, can you sit up?”

He felt a large hand smooth his hair back as if to calm him.

“Which direction did he go?” 

Unmistakably Donovan’s voice. 

“Holmes!” Donovan shouted. “ Where did he go!?”

“I don’t know!” William shouted back, his voice strained. “Can’t you see John’s hurt?”

The doctor managed to lean up a bit, raising his hand in the air as if to signal that he was alright. William helped him to his feet and gave him back his gun.

“You’re supposed to chase after the criminal, Holmes, not hang about and fuss over me.”

William acted as if he could care less about Dzundza, still critically assessing John’s body to make sure he was free of injury. 

Donovan inserted himself between the two men.

“‘I’ve got another dead body, Holmes, and this one is partly because of you. You want to tell me what the hell we should do now?”

William acknowledged the Detective Inspector with a weariness beyond his years. 

“His hideout is Brent Reservoir, near the east guardhouse,” he said. “He’ll eventually turn up there, as he doesn’t exactly blend in with the rest of society.”

“What do you mean?” Donovan asked.

John nodded. “He’s seven feet tall, bald, a face only a mother could love.” He caught a glance of William’s battered neck, which was quickly swelling from the bruising, but William wasn’t complaining. “Come on, let’s get going. He can’t be too far ahead.”

“No,” ordered Donovan.”You both get yourselves back to Baker Street. We’ll sweep the Reservoir.”

“And take the credit?”

Donovan glared at John for a moment, but didn’t say anything. He then turned and began to shout orders at his men.

William appeared exhausted. He gently pressed the tips of his fingers to his neck and cringed. 

“Come on,” said John. “Lets go home. I’ve a tonic that works wonders for brushes with death.”

…..

John poured a generous amount of the expensive whisky into the two tumblers and handed one to William. It was an unusually cool night for the summer, and he'd had stoked the fire until it roared. They each sat across from each other in their prospective chairs and clinked glasses before swallowing the amber liquid down their tender throats. 

“Well that was quite exciting,” murmured John as he refilled his glass.

William didn’t answer. He just stared at the fire. 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

William seemed reluctant to speak. He rested the glass still half-full of spirit on his knee. 

“One month. Four weeks and we’ve solved four cases and tracked down The Strangler.”

“You solved,” John corrected. “I was just along for the ride.”

William shook his head. “But that’s just it. You could have died tonight. And for what?” He sat his glass down on the end table and leaned forward. “The Yard is perfectly capable. I just don’t see the point.”

The doctor finished off his second drink and poured himself a third. Finally, the edges were becoming a bit fuzzy as he sunk deeper into his chair. 

“How did he deal with it?”

John knitted his brows. “Deal with what?”

“The constant danger. The fact you could be hurt,” he said, as if his question were obvious. 

“He knew I could take care of myself.”

William shook his head. “That’s not the point.”

“The point is, as I’ve said over and over again, you have a gift, Holmes,” John said. “London needs you.”

William again turned away toward the fire. His fingers pressed against his sore neck and he winced. 

“When he lived here, is this how you would celebrate? Good whiskey, a fire?”

“Sometimes,” John answered. “Other times he’d smoke his pipe and I'd write.”

The fire crackled and popped in the hearth.

“What else did you do?” William asked carefully.

The question hung in the air like an icicle. 

“Well, uh,” John stalled, as if trying to remember. “We’d talk.”

“And?”

William looked at him expectantly. 

“And? What are you getting at?” John snapped. “What do you want me to say?”

William drained the rest of the whiskey from his glass and placed it heavily back on the end table. 

“Nothing,” he answered wearily. He stood and briefly warmed himself by the fire before turning toward his bedroom. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” John answered, still annoyed. He drained his own glass and poured himself a fourth glass. He was feeling good and comfortable now.

Was it a lie of omission? What good would it do to tell William that he and Sherlock were lovers? As different as the two men seemingly were, William could now prefer the company of the fairer sex. 

Two months. It had been two months since a man had touched him. He felt some mornings as if he could hammer nails with his pecker. It was his own fault. He’d received a terse reply from Felipe in his last letter about his delay, as he’d made something up about William needing help with the barrister and the lease on Baker Street. 

He was going to go back to Spain, to the vineyard. Right after they closed the serial killer case. Then John would pack up and leave and never come back. 

He gathered himself up from his chair with some difficulty. He was achy from the run in with Dzundza and needed to go to bed. Just as he had stumbled through the bedroom door he heard the buzzer go off downstairs.

It was close to 2am in the morning, and Mrs Turner sometimes slept through the bell, so John sat down his whisky and held fast to the rail, stiffly making his way down the stairs. 

He threw open the door and had to blink a few times before he realized it really was Felipe standing on the doorstep. His heart clenched in guilt as he reached for him, pulling him inside the warm flat and out of the cold. 

The Spaniard looked tired and frankly, furious. But he still cracked a smile upon laying eyes on John. 

“If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed,” he whispered, and embraced John with all his might.


	5. Dr. Felipe Canales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felipe shows up at Baker Street.

The strong arms of the Spaniard enveloped him into a cocoon of warmth and safety. John couldn’t help but collapse into Felipe’s chest and bury his face into his neck. He breathed him in and sighed. 

Felipe turned his head and placed a kiss on John’s lips, then grimaced and pulled away.

“You smell odd. Are you drunk?” Felipe held him at arm's length and assessed him critically.

John swiped a hand in the air, as if requesting Felipe to pay no mind to his state of sobriety. He pulled Felipe’s bag from him and draped it over his shoulder. He leaned a bit, but righted himself against the handrail.

“Come upstairs,” his said, his words slurring a bit together. “I’ll make you some tea.”

“John,” whispered Felipe, gripping his bicep to keep him steady. “Are you alright?”

John tried to smile, but found himself unable to pretend under the scrutiny of the Spaniard’s gaze. 

“Just come upstairs,” he whispered. He tugged on the lapel of Felipe’s jacket. “Please?”

The Spaniard nodded and followed the doctor into the flat. He led him to his bedroom and sat the heavy bag down on the floor.

Felipe removed his jacket and hat as John poured fresh water from the pitcher into the basin. 

“I'll get that tea,” he said.

“I don’t want any tea,” Felipe said, stepping in his path. 

He reached over the shorter man and closed the door to the bedroom. His long fingers threaded through the back of John’s hair as he slowly massaged his scalp.

The tender touch disarmed John in a way he did not expect. Mixed with the whiskey, it caused a chain reaction in the doctor’s mind, and every emotion from the past two months - remorse, happiness, fear, resentment - came bubbling up all at once. 

His expression crumbled in a lousy attempt to stop the sob that escaped from his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Felipe shushed him and kissed him softly. 

“I know,” he answered. He kissed him again, this time letting his lips linger over John’s mouth. 

John tasted one of his own tears as he opened his lips. Felipe’s talented tongue moved languidly over his own in an attempt to draw him out.

“Oh, God,” he hissed, as Felipe pulled him close, his strong arms wrapping him tightly against his broad chest. He could feel the Spaniard half-hard against his stomach. 

A broad palm pressed against his cock, and he keened quietly into Felipe’s open mouth. He felt his trousers being opened, and he watched Felipe swipe his palm with his tongue and plunge his hand into the front of his clothing. 

It felt so good he fell back against the door with a thud. Felipe continued to stroke him as his lips sucked and teeth bit along John’s small, swelling mouth.

“You’re mouth,” John begged, a bit too loudly. “I want your mouth on me.”

Felipe slid down onto his knees and pulled John’s trousers with him. John felt the familiar, hot suck of Felipe’s luscious mouth, and he groaned with pure and utter contentment. 

“That’s it,” he mumbled, running his fingers through the Spaniard's thick, dark hair. “Oh, God, Felipe, yes…”

John couldn’t help but stare as Felipe took him deeper into his throat with every bob of his head. He watched as the Spaniard unfastened his own trousers and shove his free hand inside to palm his own prick. The sucking sound from Felipe’s expert lips echoed in the room, a glorious, filthy reminder of how much John missed having sex. 

“Oh, Christ, yes, yes…” John managed to tap Felipe on the cheek in time, but the Spaniard did not pull away. He sucked harder, hollowing out his cheeks as John pulsed onto his tongue, and he swallowed and swallowed until the good doctor was sucked dry. 

John watched as Felipe gave a few hard thrusts into his own palm and doubled over, his breath hitching as a groan escaped from deep in his throat. He managed to prop himself up from the floor with his one clean hand, the other still cupped in his trousers. 

John helped him to his feet, and Felipe barely had the strength to wash himself before he stripped off the rest of his clothing. Without a word, he curled up into the bed and fell fast asleep. 

….

Later, at that point in time where night begins to turn into day, Felipe reached for John in the darkness of the bedroom.

He pulled him close and kissed him, his hands roaming his naked body as he grew hard against his stomach. John slowly awoke to his caresses, and immediately responded in kind, stroking and loving him with his hands and mouth.

The heat grew between them and the kisses became urgent. Both the men moaned into each other’s mouths as they refused to separate for even a moment, blissfully aware of every centimeter of skin that rubbed together, causing friction and desire and the need to fill each other up, to become one again.

John slid underneath the blanket and took Felipe into his mouth. Felipe responded in kind, his fingers finding their way into the crevice of John’s behind. John sucked him for only a few moments before Felipe flipped him into his stomach and spread his legs wide. He massaged the inside of his small hips before leaning forward, taking liberties where John had not been touched by another in months.

Felipe mouthed and flicked at the puckered entrance then pressed firmly inside. John gasped and gripped the slats of the headboard. He pressed himself back into the Spaniard’s jaw, deepening the breach and impaling himself on the man’s tongue.

The Spaniard's long fingers held onto the smaller man’s trembling thighs, a hand sliding up every few moments to palm one of the mounds bracketing his face. 

“Oh Felipe,” John murmured. “Don't stop….”

Felipe hummed in response and buried his face deeper into his body. He worked thoroughly to open him with his tongue, leaving him aching for the Spaniard's cock. John slid his hand between his body and the mattress and palmed his own prick. Precome slicked his fingers as he felt his testicles full and taut against his pelvis.

John pushed Felipe onto his back and straddled his supple thighs. He held the solid, thick length behind him and pressed, easing it inside his willing body.

It burned in that familiar way that he knew would taper soon, once Felipe was all the way inside him. He worked his hips until his behind sat flush with Felipe's thighs, and began to roll his body slowly, back and forth.

Felipe’s groan echoed in the bedroom, and John lead forward to shush him, pressing his tongue into the man’s open mouth. The headboard beat rhythmically against the wall, and John pressed his arms against the slats to keep it from shaking.

As hard as he tried to stop it, the frame continued it's banging while the bed squeaked with their lovemaking. John was too aware of the noise- it was obvious the whole flat could hear them- so he tried to slow Felipe’s hard thrusts plundering his tight little body. 

The Spaniard cursed in Spanish under his breath, and in one movement swooped John up off the bed and pushed him up against the nearest wall. He wrapped his arm just under John's waist and bent him over, pressing him forward. It forced John onto his tiptoes with his palms flat against the thin wood.

Felipe pressed inside of him with a moan. A rough hand squeezed John's cock as a plump mouth nuzzled his neck. Felipe fucked him hard, with sweet declarations of love flowing like a waterfall from his lips. John squirmed and fought the grip around his prick, trying to come just from the thrill of being manhandled and pinned to the wall. 

Both men chased their pleasure, taking from each other and giving back in a messy, expert rhythm of two familiar lovers. Felipe cried out first, in a thrust so deep and vigorous it lifted John's feet clear off the floor. John’s cheek smashed against the wall, his moan muffled by the flowery wallpaper as he grabbed Felipe's hand still around his prick and thrusted hard over and over until he was pulsing between both fists. 

Felipe collapsed back into the bed, taking a come-soaked John with him. The headboard slammed against the wall, leaving a dent in the wood.

Both men couldn’t help but giggle. John rolled over to grab a flannel to clean himself and Felipe. It was the last thing he remembered before he must’ve fallen asleep.

…...

John awoke to a bright room and a throbbing head. He rolled over to go back to sleep and caught sight of Felipe’s jacket and hat lying on the chair opposite the bed. The happenings of the night before came roaring back, and he turned to find he was alone under the sheets. He groaned and rubbed his eyes, and caught the sound of muffled voices from the other side of the door. 

He leapt out of bed (an action he immediately regretted) and threw on his clothes. He quickly splashed some water on his face and ran a comb through his hair before throwing open the bedroom door. 

His heart leapt into this throat as he walked into the sitting room. William sat in his chair, relaxed, his long leg crossed over the other. Across from him was Felipe, recently bathed, fully-dressed and rested, sipping a cup of tea. 

“Good afternoon, Watson,” said William. “I trust you slept well?”

Felipe tried to hide his grin behind his teacup, but failed miserably. 

“Yes, yes, thank you, Holmes. I see…” he motioned to Felipe. “You’ve met? Both of you?”

“Yes,” answered William politely. “Dr. Canales was just telling about his medical school in Tangier.”

“He was curious as to whether or not we’d met before,” Felipe interjected. “I told him we had a conversation once, and it was about you.”

“Ah, yes, course,” John answered, obviously uncomfortable. He oscillated between the two men, finally sitting awkwardly on the edge of the couch. 

William suddenly rose from his chair and grabbed the stack of papers on the end table. 

“If you will excuse me, gentlemen. I have an appointment, and if I don’t leave now, I shall be late. Dr. Canales, it’s been a pleasure.” He turned towards the door. “Watson, I’ve taken the liberty of making the four of us dinner reservations at the restaurant. I hope that wasn’t too presumptuous. I’ve let Mrs Turner know, but I can always cancel.”

“That’s quite all right. But, the four of us?” John asked. 

“I invited Mr. Thomas. He’s been hounding you for ages to go out to dinner. Killing two birds with one stone, I suppose.”

John hopped up from his makeshift seat and followed William into the hallway. William slipped into his overcoat. 

“Where are you going?” John asked gently, hovering a bit like a mother hen. 

“I’m heading to the Yard. I just discovered evidence this morning that exonerates Mrs. Tupplebottom.”

“Didn’t they arrest her yesterday?”

“Yes, on my word, which is why I need to remedy the situation immediately.”

William placed the deerstalker on his head. His cerulean eyes sparkled as he adjusted his hat, grimacing as it slipped awkwardly over his hair. The familiar image made John smile.

“Blasted hat,” he mumbled. “How did he ever wear this thing comfortably?”

“It’s your curls,” John answered, without thinking. 

“Ah, I see,” he said, turning to John before he made his way down the stairs. “Reservation’s for 8. I may meet you there.”

“Alright.” William turned to leave, but John gripped him gently by the arm.

“Holmes - “ he began, as if to explain himself, but the taller man, as usual, guessed what he was about to say.

“Your Dr. Canales. He’s a very good man.”

John nodded. “Yes. More than I deserve.”

William paused. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said softly. “But I do see why you love him.”

The comment rendered John momentarily speechless, not just because of its perceptiveness, but in the tenderness in which William uttered the words.

John also noticed a flicker of sadness in his eyes as he turned away to head down the stairs.

“See you at eight!” he shouted behind him.

And was out the door.

John returned to the sitting room, where Felipe was gathering the cups onto the tray. 

“Where should I put this?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Mrs. Turner will be along shortly.”

John settled in across from Felipe, and absent-mindedly rubbed his palms over his thighs.

“Anything you’d like to see in London? Bit of sightseeing?”

“Perhaps,” answered Felipe. His expression was kind but wary, as if he didn’t want to approach the sore subject between them, but was going to anyway. “I need fresh air. Is there someplace we can go? Someplace quiet?”

….

The two men took a long walk through Regents Park. The Spaniard took a moment here and there to appreciate the gardens and fountains, but mostly kept pace with John, who wandered aimlessly through the well-worn paths.

“How have you been?” Felipe questioned. The words were carefully said, and it was obvious Felipe expected more than a shallow response.

John kept walking. He’d broken his oath of honesty with Felipe, and it was time to come clean.

“I have no idea how I am,” he admitted, glancing over at the Spaniard. “I feel turned inside out, most of the time. I don’t know if I’m coming or going.” He stopped and looked at Felipe head on. “I know I haven’t been fair to you, and I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m still here.”

Felipe shook his head, and continued walking. 

“John, this whole situation isn’t fair, to anyone," said Felipe. "I just keep thinking, if my Penelope reappeared, out of nowhere...it has to be very hard for you.”

“There’s something I didn’t mention in my letters,” he said. “William’s tried to kill himself. Twice.” 

_“Joder_ , when?”

“A few months ago. It’s why his brother decided to tell me he was alive, why he begged me to come.” John stopped and picked up a rock and flung into the pond. “I’m terrified. To leave. To stay. I keep him at arm’s length, I guess. I don’t even know what happened, how he was found.”

Felipe stopped. 

“Wait, you don’t know how he ended up working in Munich?”

John shook his head. 

“Did you ever ask him?”

Surely he had. He couldn’t remember offhand, but he was sure that they’d had a conversation about it at some point.

“He woke up in a hotel room, alone, on the brink of death. The innkeeper’s mother was kind and nursed him back to health. He paid the man and his mother back by working at the inn.”

John stared at Felipe in amazement. “How do you know all this?”

“He told me, this morning,” Felipe answered, shaking his head. “The innkeeper’s son worked at the consulate’s office, and hired Sherlock as an interpreter when he realized he spoke fluent German and English.”

“Oh,” murmured John. “I’m not sure how - I guess I didn’t think about it. After we’ve been back in London, he’s been working, at the Yard...we haven’t talked much about the past.”

John left out the part where he steered every conversation away from any history he and Sherlock had shared. He kept that part locked away, figuring it was none of William’s business. 

Felipe eyed his lover carefully. 

“Why did you insist he take up his old profession?”

John looked down at his hands. “I wanted him to feel useful.” He looked up wide-eyed at Felipe. “Since the suicide attempts, I couldn’t bear the thought of him being sent somewhere. Or what if he...you know.”

Felipe nodded sympathetically. 

“And you? Did it make you feel useful again as well?”

“What?”

“The life of a farmer, of a village doctor, can be tedious. Especially when you are used to a different way of life.”

John shook his head adamantly. “I love you, Felipe. I love the vineyard, the village, the people…”

“I know you do, John.” Felipe rubbed his large hands wearily over his face. He motioned for John to sit with him on a small bench near a grove of trees. Once they were hidden, he took John’s hand and clasped it between both of his own.

“I want you to listen to me carefully,” he said softly. “I’ve always known your heart belonged to Sherlock. Even after he died, I knew I was still only borrowing it.” He squeezed John’s hand. “It is a miracle that William is alive.”

“Felipe, I’m over Sherlock. I can’t go back there. I’m done,” he said adamantly. 

“Yet you stay.”

John felt like his heart was breaking in two. Felipe drew him close and kissed his forehead tenderly. 

“I came here to make sure you were safe.”

“Not to bring me home?”

Felipe didn’t answer. 

Instead he just held him, tightly, until the sun began to set over the pond.


	6. The Reservoir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William takes matters into his own hands, and the results are disastrous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the full series "Untitled Nobility". It'll be complete in just a few days!

The sun slipped behind the horizon. John had held on the Spaniard like he would disappear the same way. It wasn't until the darkness loomed over them that he became aware of the time.

He reached for his pocket watch, and suddenly rose from the bench.

“I didn't realize the late hour. If we are to meet our dinner companions on time, we should go.”

Felipe stood up and gathered the shorter man close. His large hands cradled his neck as he kissed him softly. 

“Whatever happens, John, I'm here. I'll always be here.”

John closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the Spaniard's. “I don't deserve you,” he whispered.

Felipe kissed him again. “It's not a matter of deserving. The heart simply wants what it wants.”

Voices beyond the thicket startled both men into separating. They rounded the corner into the main path along the pond, and walked like two friends returning from an evening stroll. 

….

The two men bypassed Baker Street and met a pacing Mr. Thomas at the restaurant’s entrance.

“I thought I’d gotten the time wrong and you’d already gone!” he declared. 

The former servant-turned-investment authority smiled as he spotted Felipe. He shook the Spaniard’s hand with enthusiasm.

“It’s a pleasure, Dr. Canales,” he said. “Johnny always spoke warmly of you.”

“As of you, Mr. Thomas,” Felipe responded graciously.

John checked his watch again. It was well past 8 o’clock, and William was nowhere to be found. 

“We should sit, or they’ll hand over our table.”

The men shuffled inside and ordered the special, roasted lamb and potatoes. John went ahead and ordered for William, whom he assumed would show at any moment. It wasn’t like the man to be late, but it was only half-past the hour. 

The conversation was light and pleasant. As they finished their entrees, John asked if they could wrap up William's untouched plate. Mr. Thomas was adamant they order dessert, since he hadn’t “had a decent treacle tart since Halidon Hall’s Christmas party three years ago”. John was becoming concerned at William’s absence. It was now after 9 o’clock, but Felipe had agreed to try the Battenberg cake and he didn’t want to spoil the mood. 

“I’m usually not one for desserts,” remarked Felipe. “Apparently London works up one’s appetite for new things.”

Mr Thomas scoffed good-naturedly. “It seems you both enjoy appetite-inducing activities, especially those that take place in the wee hours of the morning.”

Felipe stopped chewing as John shot a look at the former footman, his mouth opening in surprise. 

“To what are you referring, Mr Thomas?”

Mr Thomas turned bright red. He stammered and looked down at the bite of tart on his fork, then sat it down onto his plate with an indignant huff. “Well, Johnny, surely you’d agree, Mrs Turner needs her sleep. After all, she’s taking care of the flat, and of Mr. Holmes. And with respect to Dr Canales, who arrived unannounced after midnight, and the raucous that ensued? It’s not proper!” He had lowered his voice to the point the last six words were but a whisper, and he leaned in to John like he was spilling treasonous secrets that betrayed the queen herself.

Felipe fought a giggle, but failed. He did have the good sense to dissolve into a rather sever coughing fit to compensate. 

John, though, was furious.

“Mrs Turner is my employee,” he said carefully, glaring at Mr Thomas. “If she feels the need to spread details of my personal life to everyone within earshot, maybe I need to rethink her position at Baker Street.”

Mr Thomas’s face went white. He shook his head adamantly. 

“Johnny, Marie’s not spreading your business, I’m just saying, manners dictate -”

“-and what is with this ‘Marie’ business?” John interrupted. “I’ve never known you to be so informal. Lecturing me on manners -”. 

“I’ll have you know, you ungrateful boy, that Mrs Turner and I plan on marrying, soon. So there!”

The older man glared back at John, defiant in his stare. 

The tense moment from before seemed to fall away at the news. A half-smile creeped onto John’s lips. 

“Congratulations!” exclaimed Felipe.

John felt a bit of happiness bloom in his chest.

“Really?” 

Mr Thomas nodded, and broke into a wide grin. “I love her. I asked her to be my wife, and she said yes.” His face was suddenly serious as he grabbed John’s hand under the table. “But I promised her we’d tell you together, so when we do, act surprised, alright?”

John chuckled. “Alright. But I can’t believe you’re stealing my housekeeper away. I’m assuming you're moving back to Berwick.”

Mr Thomas shrugged his shoulders and shoved another huge piece of pie in his mouth. “That depends on you and Mr Holmes.”

John warily looked over at Felipe, who gave him a sad smile. 

“Where is that boy, anyway?”

“I was just wondering that myself,” said Felipe. “You mentioned Sherlock would often disappear while working on a case. Maybe William is distracted and forgot.”

John shook his head. “One could set his watch by him. It’s unusual for him not to show, and to not send word.” 

The two men seemed to understand his concern. Without a word, they quickly finished the rest of their desserts and headed back to the flat. 

…

“We’re supposed have a full moon tonight, not that we’ll get to see it” said Mr Thomas.

The men walked along the dark London sidewalk towards Baker Street. The smell of rain approaching was in the wind as it blew cool air across the city. Thick clouds covered the sky as streaks of lightening lit it up in flashes, followed by the rumble of thunder.

As they approached the entryway to the flat, it opened. Mrs Turner escorted Detective Inspector Donovan through the door, and he almost collided with John. 

“Inspector,” John said. “What brings you by this late hour? Did you apprehend our strangler?”

“Unfortunately, no. I was hoping to speak with Holmes,” the man answered, looking past Felipe and Mr Thomas. “He’s not with you?” 

“He didn’t show up for dinner,” John said, his unease growing. “Mr Turner, has Mr Holmes been home at all this evening?

“No, Dr Watson, I haven’t seen him since this afternoon.”

A pit suddenly formed in John’s stomach. Something was wrong.

“He came by the yard,” said Donovan. “I wanted to check in on him, after what happened today.”

John glanced over at Felipe, who had the same look of concern on his face. 

“What do you mean, ‘what happened’?” 

Donovan sighed.

“A suspect we arrested yesterday, a Mrs. Tupplebottom, hung herself in the holding cell this morning. She tore her dress, made a makeshift noose. It wasn’t pretty.”

Everyone gasped. John swore under his breath.

“William was on his way to exonerate her this afternoon,” John murmured. 

Donovan shifted uncomfortably “When I told him, he just - left.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

Donovan shook his head. “I assumed he came home. But if no one’s seen him -...”

Lightening flashed so brightly across the sky it illuminated the street for a brief moment. Mrs Turner gasped and stepped back inside. 

“It’s going to pour, gentlemen. I suggest you all come inside and have a nightcap.”

No one argued with the housekeeper, and instead traipsed one by one up the stairs and into the sitting room. 

Mrs Turner poured them each two fingers of expensive whiskey and disappeared downstairs. John refused to sit, but just stared out the window, worried out of his mind. 

“Would he have gone back to Land’s End?” asked Felipe. “Caught a train?”

John shook his head. “He would’ve stopped by here first. At least packed a bag, I would think.”

“Maybe he went to see her family,” said Mr Thomas. “To make amends for the false arrest.”

That was a possibility, John thought. William took things to heart more so than Sherlock ever had. But if that were the case, he would have already returned. 

The wind whipped against the building, rattling the window panes. John caught sight of Mr Thomas in the window, the shadow distorting his image, making him look like some sort of…

_Monster._

“Inspector,” John turned suddenly. “You said Oscar Dzundza is still at large?”

Donovan titled his glass and let the rest of the whiskey slip easily down his throat. 

“We’ve monitored the reservoir,” he said. “So far, only one sighting, not confirmed.” He placed his glass carefully on the mantle. “You don't think…”

John bolted to his bedroom and pulled down the wooden box where he stored his precious Browning. He opened it.

He gripped the empty box with both hands and shut his eyes for a moment, willing himself not to scream.

Instead, he hurled it across the room into the wall. The heavy container punctured the wallpaper and landed with a thud on the floor.

John seethed and turned back to the sitting room, where all the men stared at him in shock. Mrs Turner came running up the stairs and stopped in the doorway. 

“What’s happened?” she said, out of breath.

“He took the gun,” John growled. “That idiot took my gun.” He pulled at his hair and paced the floor in fury.

“You think he went to the reservoir, to look for Oscar Dzundza,” the Inspector said warily. 

“I do,” John seethed. 

“But that, by himself-,” said Donovan. “Would be suicide.”

“I know,” he whispered, looking desperately over at Felipe.

The Spaniard rose from the chair and turned to Mr Thomas.

“Mr Thomas, can you please arrange for a cab?” he asked. “John, you need to gather your medical bag.”

He walked over and place his hands on top of his shoulders, looking him straight in the eye.

“The sooner we start looking, the better chance we have of finding him.”

John knew Felipe was being kind, refusing to say it. 

The word he’d purposefully omitted from that sentence was _alive._

….

The cab driver was not happy to be so far outside of London proper so late in the evening. John had to pay him triple and Donovan had to show him his badge before he’d agreed to take them all the way out to the Reservoir. 

John watched the wind whip the trees and the lightning light up the cobblestone streets as they passed through northern London. The road became darker the further they got from the center of the city. Within 45 minutes or so, the large body of water loomed before them, in the night looking like a black, reflective oil slick stretching as far as the eye could see. 

Donovan gave orders to the driver to follow the path to eastern guard house. From there, he said, the patrolmen monitored one of the main bridges that crossed the narrow part of the reservoir.

As the carriage approached the small building, it was noticeably unlit. No guard was in sight, and it looked to be abandoned. The men tumbled out of the cab and lit their lanterns, approaching the guardhouse with caution. 

As they climbed the steps to the door, Felipe stumbled and gasped. 

Donovan shined the light on the stoop to reveal a man lying against the railing.

“Oh, God, Perceval,” he muttered. 

Felipe leaned forward and checked the man’s pulse. He grimaced and shook his head. 

John creeped in closer, shining his lantern to expose the marks on the officer’s neck. 

“Dzundza was here,” he murmured. 

John carefully pushed open the guardhouse door. The inside was a scattered mess of strewn papers and furniture. A scuffle of some sort had obviously occurred. Donovan shined his lantern over a pile of papers, and picked up an article of clothing, showing it to John. 

It was William’s deerstalker. 

John boldly headed out of the entryway that led to the bridge, and the wind hit him like a brick, for a moment knocking him off center. He caught his breath and righted himself, but it was so pitch black he couldn’t see a blasted thing, even with his lantern. He heard Felipe behind him.

“Look, here,” he said suddenly, lowering his lamp to a trail of dark liquid that had soaked into the wood. 

Donovan, who had just walked out of the guardhouse, reached down and touched the substance, rubbing it through his fingers in front of the light. 

“There’s more!” said Felipe. 

John trudged forward, following spatters closely with his lantern. He heard the water splashing against the boards below him as the wind blew. The railings along the bridge were but rope strewn on either end, with a fastener and loop on a wooden pole every six feet. 

Suddenly, bolts of lightning flashed across the open sky. It illuminated the entire reservoir for a few fleeting moments, and John could plainly see the trail of blood ran all the way across the narrow bridge. 

He began to run as thunder rumbled all around him, and large drops of rain began to fall, pitter patter on the bridge and splashing into the lake. 

John reached the end of the bridge and skittered down the stairs into the grass and dirt. 

He shined the lamp all around him, and found more blood. 

“WILLIAM!” he couldn’t help but shout. 

The rain erupted into a downpour. The dirt began to muddy, slowly erasing the trail of blood.

“No!” John cried out, running haphazardly along the shoreline.

Not again, he thought.

“John! Over there!” 

It was Donovan shouting from the middle of the bridge. John looked up, and could barely see the Inspector pointing, just ahead of John.

A fortuitous bolt of lightening swelled the sky, and flickered long enough to expose the figure of a man, lying on the shoreline along the water. John took off like the hounds of hell were chasing him. 

The disappearing trail of blood followed almost perfectly with the position of the body in the rocks. When John reached the man, the trail stopped. He fell to his knees, out of breath, dropping the lantern into the mud.

But the man on the shore wasn’t William. 

The Golem laid on his back, staring up in the night sky, the rain pummeling his face and washing the blood from his broken lip in a red trail down his neck. 

A quick assessment of his body revealed he’d been shot in the stomach. The wound, untreated, was bleeding profusely into the mud.

An unspoken fury gripped John like he’d never known before. He leaned over the strangler, the murderer, and peered right into his other-worldly eyes. 

“Where is he?” John seethed. He gripped the strangler’s collar lifted him off the ground, shaking him so hard his teeth rattled. 

“Where. Is. He!”

Oscar Dzundza seemed to barely register John’s presence. His eyes were glazed and his stare unfocused.

John reared back with all his might and punched him hard in the jaw. The huge man landed with a thud back onto the muddy ground, and the doctor roughly picked him up again by the front of his jacket.

“Answer me, goddammit!” he growled. 

The Golem’s eyes suddenly focused and glared back at John. His deformed mouth began to twitch….and he spit directly into John’s face.

John shouted in disgust, and dropped The Golem back into the mud. He gripped the man’s neck and pummeled the monster at will, over and over, blood flying from the man’s cheeks and nose, spraying all over the doctor’s coat and face. 

Moments later John felt someone grabbing him from behind and he was pulled off of the dying man. John fought the Inspector until he realized it was futile, so he dropped his hands to his knees to catch his breath. 

The Golem coughed and sputtered, and then let out a howl that pierce the rain. At first the two men thought he was screaming in pain, until they saw his massive shoulders shaking. 

The Golem was laughing.

“I’m going to kill you,” John growled.

He flung himself forward, but stopped as Felipe’s voice rang out, just barely audible over the rainstorm. 

“John!”

The two men turned towards the shout. They could barely make out the Spaniard, who was swinging the lantern from atop the bridge.

“Here!” 

John took off running back toward the bridge, leaving the monster to Donovan. He stumbled and fell in the muck, but kept going as the rain poured down his face. He flung himself up the steps to the bridge but slipped, falling head first onto the stone steps and hitting his head, hard. 

He felt himself fall onto his back and into sludge. The breath was knocked out of him, and he groaned in pain. He tried to get up, but only managed to move his head to the side. The lightning flashed, and he managed a glimpse of something metal lying in the soaked clay. 

He squinted and tried to sit up, catching sight of the object before collapsing helplessly back to the ground. 

It looked like a gun. His gun.

The world began to spin. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to _die._

The rain, the thunder, the rush of the water all fell away. He could only hear the beating of his heart.

Everything horrible he'd ever felt about himself washed over him, as if he were drowning in the reservoir next to him. He was the invert son of a vicar, a man who could not hold his drink, who floundered in the face of piety and fed his ego with a profession beyond his reach. His scarred, weak body had failed him in his search for Sherlock, who had suffered alone while John frolicked in Spain with the same lover he'd abandoned him for in Tangier, the same man he'd been with while he let the love of his life battle addiction and the consequences of acts from horrible people, thoughtless acts that John had also suffered, consequences he knew all too well. 

Lightening flashed and the thunder crashed over him, but John only heard gunfire. Not just the firing of one gun or two, but armies of gunfire. Cannons, too.

He was back in Kandahar, lying on the battlefield. His shoulder hurt like hell, and the sun burned down on him like fire on coal.

Sherlock appeared above him, as if he just happened to walk by. He was dressed in his fine coat and top hat, with a white handkerchief folded neatly into his pocket. 

“Oh, hello John.”

“Sherlock?”

“Whom else were you expecting?

“I wasn’t expecting anyone, I suppose.”

“Well, since you're here, let me ask you this. Is he really that bad?”

“Who?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Me. William, or whatever he’s calling himself.”

John winced. His shoulder pulsed with pain. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. He’s fine.”

Sherlock tilted his head, as if waiting for him to continue.

“He’s not you.”

“Are you sure?”

“He doesn’t remember me.”

“Does he have to?”

Sherlock knelt down by his side and placed his large hand over the bloody wound. The pain was excruciating, and John cried out in misery. 

Suddenly, the agony subsided. Then, the pain was gone. 

John looked. His wound was now a scar, tender and red, but healed.

Sherlock smiled as he removed his hand.

“Save me, John,” he said.

Someone was yelling at him. Pulling at his arm. 

The rain pummeled his face. He felt like he was drowning. 

“Watson, are you alright?” 

Donovan pulled him to his feet. He leaned into the Inspector who helped him to the stairs. 

“My gun,” John pointed to the clay where it lay. “It’s there.”

The Inspector gathered it up and handed it to the doctor. In turn, Donovan helped John up the stairs, and they met Felipe on the bridge near the guardhouse entrance.

Felipe had laid down onto his stomach and was hanging over the side, shining the lantern down into the infrastructure of the bridge. 

“See him?” he gasped. “He’s there!”

John dropped to his knees beside Felipe and lowered himself down, looking over the edge. He frantically looked all over the depths of the bridge, the water rushing and crashing against the pillars as the wind roared.

And he saw him. It was just a glimpse of white skin against the pillar, but it was William. 

“William, can you hear me?!” he shouted, pulling off his jacket. Donovan had disappeared into the guard house to reemerge with a rope. John grabbed the end of it and tied it quickly around his waist. 

“Felipe, Donovan, lower me down.”

“It’s too dangerous!”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Felipe glared at him for a moment, then turned to Donovan and grabbed the rope, wrapping it around his waist twice. 

“We’ll hold on to you. Three tugs, and we pull you up. If I think you’re in danger, we pull you up. Yes?”

“Yes,” John nodded, and turned toward the edge of the landing. 

Slowly, he was lowered down onto the side of the wooden beams. William was wedged between two of the pillars, with the lower half of his body submerged in the water. John’s feet touched the lake, and he cried out from the cold. 

John managed to shine the lantern on William’s face. He was shockingly pale and his eyes were shut. John hesitated before leaning forward to check for a pulse. 

He didn’t breath as he pressed two fingers against his long, pale neck. 

But he felt it. It was faint, but William was alive. 

He gripped the lantern between his teeth and swung himself forward, taking the end of the free rope he carried with him and wrapping it multiple times under William’s arms and across his chest. After several attempts, he managed to push him free of the pillars, and he held his weight against the wooden beams as he yanked hard on the rope three times. 

Within moments, the two men were hoisted up, suspended in mid air over the stormy waters of the reservoir. John held on to William with all his strength, and when they reached the top and collapsed together onto the bridge, John cried out: 

“He’s alive! Help him! He’s alive!” 

Felipe immediately picked up William and placed him inside the guard house. John tried to follow, but his knees gave way and he landed with a thud. He folded over onto himself and began to sob with relief, feeling the rain beat his body and the thunder roll through his ears, because at last, at last, he’d saved his love, from the raging waters that had once again tried to take him away.

…..

“Should we take him to hospital?”

“No, they can do nothing for him. It’s better we take him home.”

The ride back to Baker Street was done in silence. By the time the men got Willam home and into bed, it was apparent the injured man was in an extremely precarious state. 

He hadn’t regained consciousness, and his fever raged as his breathing alternated between barely registering to fast and desperate. His lips and nails were shockingly blue, his face and body as pale as death. 

Luckily, he’d vomited on his own as Felipe held him on his side. His lungs were working, and as far as both doctors could tell, his motor functions were working properly. They weren’t dealing with oxygen deprivation so much as exposure to the elements and water in the lung, which meant keeping the patient dry and warm and away from possible infections. 

John slept in the chair next to him for the next few days, refusing to leave his side. William’s coloring improved, but his breathing was still troublesome. He’d yet to stir. 

On the fourth day, his fever spiked and he began to wheeze. John extracted a sample of sputum from his lung, and Felipe confirmed under Sherlock’s microscope that he had indeed developed pneumonia. 

Both doctors discussed possible serum treatment, but the practice was still experimental. Felipe insisted they give William time. He was still relatively young and healthy, and he’d seen men pull through in cases such as this one. 

So they waited. Days turned into a week, until finally, towards the end of the seventh day, William stirred and opened his eyes. 

John was reading in the chair next to the bed when he heard Willam’s breathing change. He glanced up from his book to see crystal eyes staring back at him. 

John leaned forward and gripped William’s hand.

“There you are,” he whispered. “You’ve been out for quite a while.”

William tried to speak, but failed. John picked up a glass of water and helped him drink. William sputtered and coughed, and then didn’t stop hacking for the next five minutes. 

It was a wet cough, and all sorts of things came flying out. John was thrilled to watch him produce the ick that was clogging his lungs, though William seemed much more miserable for it. 

“Dzundza,” he managed to whisper, after he’d calmed down. 

“He’s dead,” answered John. “You did it, William. Now, rest.”

….

Felipe seemed relieved once John told him William had stirred. The two men looked at his sputum again under the microscope, and both men concluded his condition had turned. He was going to live.

That evening, the two men sat by the fire as Mrs Turner served them tea. William was resting, but muffled coughing still emanated periodically from the bedroom. It was a good sign. 

“William’s recovery will be arduous,” said Felipe. “You know as well as I do he may never return to full health.”

“I know,” John said softly. “London isn’t the best place for him. His lungs are too weak. I’ll need to take him back to Land’s End.”

Mrs Turner tutted under her breath, “He’s not going to like that.”

John nodded wearily. “What else am I do to?”

“At the very least, ask him before you make any decision,” said Felipe. “It’s his life.”

….

John awoke early the next morning at William’s side. He’d once again slept in the chair next to the bed, and his back was beginning to revolt. He needed to lie down.

He crept silently to the back bedroom as not to wake the Spaniard, but was shocked to find the room empty.

There was a note folded neatly on the end table.

John read it with trembling hands as his heart squeezed in his chest.

 _My Dearest John,_  
_I received a letter from Raul that the harvest is but a few weeks away._  
_I must go where I am needed._  
_Find your happiness, my love, wherever it may be._  
_Your Felipe_

John sat heavily on the bed, then fell back onto the pillows. He could still smell Felipe’s soap and cologne in the unwashed pillowcase. He read and reread the note over and over, wiping his wet eyes with his thumbs. 

The Spaniard had left him again. At least this time, he had said goodbye.

He held the note over his heart and wept, until his eyes grew heavy and he fell into a fitful sleep. 

 

….

A week had past since Felipe had left for Spain. John sat with William as he attempted to eat a few spoonfuls of broth. He managed to get it down and keep it there without coughing. It was a minor miracle, one William appreciated. 

He leaned back against his pillow, exhausted. John sat the bowl on the table beside them.

“Thank you,” William said softly. “I seem to be getting better at that.”

John managed a small smile. “You’re recovering, it’s good.”

“But?”

John’s eyes dipped. “Your lungs. They’re damaged, and some of it will remain permanent. You won’t be the same.”

“Ah,” William said. “I can’t stay in London, can I.”

“No, you’ll need to leave, as soon as you are well enough to travel.” John hesitated, but decided it was as good of time as any. “You could always go back to Land’s End.”

William adamantly shook his head. “No. I want to go someplace new. Where no one knows me. Quiet. I want to keep bees.”

He looked warily at John, expecting a fight.

But John only nodded.

“Why bees?”

William smiled. “The old woman that saved my life kept bees. Taught me how to gather the honey from the hives. Bees are fascinating.”

John nodded, finally understanding. “What else?”

William looked over at him suspiciously. “What else?”

“What else do you want? A place no one knows you, someplace new, quiet, with beehives...that’s not much to ask. I just want to make sure I find what you want.”

William’s gaze softened. He looked at John as if he were precious, as if he might disappear at any moment. 

“Sussex Downs.”

“Sussex?” John said. “Stamford’s from there. I’ll ask him to inquire about a flat.

William shook his head. “A cottage.” He paused for a moment, then said, “And I should like you to go with me.”

“Of course, I’ll go with you,” John said lightly. “I’ll be happy to get you sorted, give you my opinion as such. It’ll be good for me to get out to the country too, you know. Fresh air, push London out of the lungs.”

Sherlock’s crystal eyes flickered to the ceiling for a moment. 

“Of course I welcome your insight on such matters,” he said softly. “But I’d hope you would consider...moving. To the country. With me.”

“Oh,” John whispered. 

William continued to stare at the ceiling, as if awaiting John’s vehement decline.

“I’ll think about it, alright?”

William, surprised, turned his head to stare with amazement at the doctor. He nodded shyly. 

“Alright.”


	7. Sussex Downs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John moves William to the country, but makes a decision that changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly thought this was going to be the last chapter but I have more to write. Bear with me. I'll try to make it worth it haha

The little white cottage was nestled between a thicket of trees on one end and a rolling field on the other. A large wooden gate, which at some point had also been painted white, separated the front garden from the dirt road that led into town. The blooms of the climbing rose that sprawled over the middle third of the home had long since faded, but the leaves were still green as was the ivy that wound around the eaves and the chimney. The thatched roof was thick and looked to be in good shape, and the front door was painted a cornflower blue that immediately reminded John of his childhood home in Luss. 

The two men stepped inside the front door, and reveled in the fresh smell of lavender lingering over the scrubbed floor and counters of the bright, tiny kitchen. To the left, a wide mantel framed a large stone hearth and in the middle, four chairs squeezed around a small, wooden table. John was excited to see a large sink with an attached water pump, so they wouldn’t be roughing it too much. The kitchen bled into the parlour, which held two decent size chairs, a fancy writing desk and two large bookshelves crammed full of books. A door to the right led to the one bedroom on the property, and the one to the left opened to the small outdoor sitting area that was covered overhead by wooden beams and thick vines. 

Autumn had just settled in, and the gardens bloomed in rusty orange and bright yellow. A path led through green bushes and withering perennials to a group of small, white structures that looked like simple rectangular wooden boxes. The boxes immediately caught William’s eye, and he approached them with a demeanor of disbelief and reverence. John followed behind, hoping for the man’s approval. 

“Stamford’s uncle was an amateur apiarist,” John explained. “The neighbor takes care of them at the moment, but I’m told he’s amenable to you taking over. If you want to, that is.”

William nodded. “I’d be delighted.”

“Good.” 

William stood back from the hives and looked back up at the house. John watched as he moved slowly back up the pathway, as if he were terrified of setting off his cough, which seemed to overtake him at the first sign of overexertion. He had lost a significant amount of weight while ill and had yet to gain much of it back. 

John knew he hated to be coddled because of his condition. He admired William’s grit and rarely heard the man complain, though he often had reason.

“Would you like to walk with me into the village? It won’t take along. We need some provisions for supper.”

“Not beans on toast again.”

“Oi, you can fix us a meal then! Never claimed to be much of a cook.”

William grinned. “It’s Mr. Thomas’s fault, running off with our housekeeper. It’s not decent, you know, from what I’m told.”

Mr and Mrs Thomas had recently married in a small ceremony in London, and had chosen to settle in Berwick upon Tweed. This meant John and William had been on their own and had eaten out practically every meal. The dirty teacups that had piled up in the sink were quite a point of contention between the two men, so it had been a relief to leave the flat and head south to Sussex Downs. Stamford had offered up the free housing. It was a cottage owned by his late uncle, who had been the village doctor for 40 years and had never married. He’d built the cottage himself, and had been quite a fixture in the community until his passing the year before. 

It was only a fifteen minute walk into town, but by the time the two men arrived Willam was exhausted. He sat on the grocers stoop to catch his breath as John did the shopping. They took it easy on the way home, stopping every few moments so William could rest. 

They ate a supper of fresh eggs and bacon. John made William clean up while he checked the hearth in William’s bedroom. He stacked the kindling and checked the flue, and soon he had a fire roaring and crackling in the tiny bedroom. He pulled the door shut behind him keep to the room warm. 

William was sitting in one of the two chairs in the parlour with a long wooden box on his lap. He caressed the box like it was a long lost treasure.

“Your room should soon be a sauna by the time you're ready for sleep,” John said. “What have you got there?”

“I found it, over there on the bookshelf.”

With his eyes glistening by the lamplight, he opened the box and pulled out a lovely, chestnut-colored violin. 

John’s eyebrows shot up. “You know how to play that?”

William nodded. “I believe so. Sometimes I get this inkling that I know how to do something.” He plucked at the strings, and held it upright, listening to the sounds. “Do you mind? If it’s dreadful, I’ll know it and stop.”

“Not at all. Be my guest.”

William played the instrument a bit as John freed his belongings from the large trunk William had insisted on bringing along. He swept around the hearth, then spread his bedroll between the hearth and the table. He stoked the fire and warmed himself, deciding he’d slept in much worse places. 

John noticed the tuning had stopped. He looked up at William who was now standing between the parlour and the kitchen. 

“Why do you insist on sleeping in here?

“Because you are still recovering and need a warm, safe room,” John said. “Anyway, you know your coughing would keep me up all night.”

“John, I barely cough anymore,” he scolded. “Besides, once I start harvesting the honey, it should disappear altogether. Honey is excellent for coating the throat.”

“We’ll see,” John said. “Until then…” He dropped a blanket on top of his bedroll and set a lantern on the chair. “I’ll be perfectly fine here.”

William gave up and returned to the parlour as John settled into his makeshift bed. He read for a while by lamplight, listening to William strum and pick at the old violin. It was late when he heard the bedroom door open and then shut. John blew out his lamp and snuggled in, falling right to sleep.

….

The next few weeks passed quickly. John worked on repairing what he found to be worrisome draft in the kitchen as William set up the house to his specifications. He bought a large table that he placed in the parlour to hold his microscope and slides. He began cataloguing insects and soil samples, and kept a honeybee diary as detailed as anything John had ever seen. 

In the evening, William would play his violin and John would read. His playing improved with every piece, and soon it was if he’d been practicing for decades.

It was deep into the autumn weather when the neighbors warned them the first frost was nigh. William took great care in preparing his hives and John gathered kindling and restocked the coal supply. The wind turned cold the next afternoon but they both kept working through the plummeting temperature. John took care to seal the window in William’s room and gathered more blankets for the bed. He had the main hearth in the kitchen going all day, with a kettle of simmering potato and bacon soup ready for eating as soon as the sun set. 

He’d just filled the tub in the kitchen with the last of the boiling water as William walked in, his teeth chattering and his arms full of honey jars. John gathered the honey and then helped him out of his coat. He was trembling and coughing and mad as a wet cat.

“My blasted lungs!” he cursed as he coughed. He tried to gather some honey on a spoon but knocked over the jar. John spooned some warm water into a cup and added a generous dollop of the thick substance, stirring it thoroughly. 

“Here,” he said, holding it close to William’s lips. 

William drank it down gratefully, sputtering and hacking. He soon calmed, however, and sat down, drained from his failing health and the day's activities. 

“Bath’s ready,” John said. “It’s hot. Take it now, it’s cooling fast.”

John sat in the parlour to give William privacy. He heard the water sloshing and a sigh escape from the younger man’s lips as he settled into the steaming water. 

John poured himself a glass of claret and settled into his chair with his book. He had secretly been reading Wilkie Collins's _The Woman in White_. He’d found the novel tucked behind a set of medical journals on the top row of the bookshelf. He sipped his wine and opened it to the ear bent page...but he couldn’t keep his mind on the story. 

His thoughts kept drifting to the water sloshing in the next room. Long, pale legs bent to fit into the edges of the oblong container, soapy hands lathering up a pale, muscular chest, sweeping over two dusky pink nipples erect from the cold air... 

“John?”

_Oh God, had he been talking aloud?_

“Yes?” he managed, his heart racing. 

“I spilled water all over my towel. Is there another you can bring to me?”

John got up too quickly and his book fell from his lap onto the floor. He hid it behind the end table and walked to the trunk, where he dug around for fresh towel and then stepped into the kitchen. 

William’s back was to him in the tub (thank god) so he hung the towel over the back of the nearest chair. 

“Here,” he said. 

“Thank you,” William answered, and began to get up from the tub.

John quickly turned and hurried back into the parlour. He drank down his claret and poured himself another glass, willing the erection that had half-formed in his trousers to go away. 

….

John followed with a lukewarm bath of his own, and both men sat down to soup and bread. John continued to indulge in the wine, and seeing that the bottle was already open, William had a glass or two. As they retired to the parlour, they both felt refreshed, full and relaxed. William sat in the chair next to John, and noticed the book crammed behind the end table. 

“What’s this?” he said. “Ah, brought a bit of Baker Street with you, I see.”

John shook his head, a bit embarrassed at being found out. “Naw, found it up there,” he said, pointing at the top shelf of the bookcase. “I think Stamford’s uncle had a thing for sensation novels. There’s more behind the journals.”

William sat the book aside and opened another bottle of wine. He refilled their cups and took a generous swig from his own. 

“I love it here,” he declared softly. He turned his gaze to John, who smiled back. 

“I’m glad.”

“Have you decided?”

John knew what William was asking but he didn’t know how to explain himself - that he didn’t want to leave, but he was terrified to stay. Thoughts of his growing boredom in Spain coupled with the lack of excitement in the country made him wary. He was perfectly content at the moment, but how long would it last? He couldn't disappoint William with an empty promise.

“Can we talk about it tomorrow?”

“That’s what you said yesterday.”

Silence fell on the room as the two men sat next to each other and sipped their claret. The fire crackled in the hearth as the shadows from the flames danced on the wall.

“He hasn’t written.”

“No.”

“Nor you to him.”

John shook his head. John had written once to tell Felipe of William’s recovery and the impending move to Sussex Downs. Felipe had written once to tell of a successful harvest and the farm’s first profit in over a decade. Neither had written much of a personal nature, nor had written each other since.

“Do you miss London?”

“William,” warned John. “I said, let’s speak of it tomorrow.”

William was silent for a moment, then suddenly stood up. 

“I can’t bear this any longer.”

In an act of unprecedented submission, he turned and kneeled at John’s feet. 

“Stay here,” he said. “ _Please.”_

John squirmed in discomfort. He grabbed the man’s arms and tried to pull him up. 

“Stop, William. I said, stop!” 

The two men struggled as John tried to force William back to his feet. William pushed back as John stood, and his chair toppled over, taking his wine with it. The glass shattered as John grasped Willam’s forearms together, the younger man still on his knees as John towered over him. 

“I killed an innocent woman!” William shouted up at him. 

John immediately released his arms in shock. 

“What?”

William slumped. “I think about her everyday. Hanging in that cell from the hem of her torn dress.” He looked up at John, his eyes full of pain. “She hadn’t done anything wrong. I thought I was clever, discovering she was having an affair with the guard who gave that _monster_ a place to hide.”

“You’re talking about Mrs. Tupplebottom?” John asked incredulously. “I had no idea you were still obsessing over that. Why didn’t you say anything?”

William scoffed and threw up his hands. 

“Why?" he answered. “Every question I have, every problem I bring to you you give me half-truths or placate me with some trivial nonsense. You keep me far away.” 

He sighed and gathered himself from the floor. “I’m grateful, John. You take care of my practical needs, and you do it well. But I can pay someone to help me with those things.”

William headed towards the bedroom and had his hand on the doorknob when John growled behind him.

“Don’t walk away from me.”

William froze. John approached him, seething. 

“So I’m replaceable, just like that?”

He stepped forward, backing William into the door. 

“That’s not what I said.”

”I don’t understand what you want from me,” he said, his eyes sharp with anger. 

William didn't look away, but faced John and his fury head-on.

“I want intimacy,” he said softly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

The confession punched the breath from John’s lungs. He couldn’t answer. He didn’t know _how_ to answer. 

“Forget it,” William said, turning quickly and opening the door to the bedroom. 

John followed him into the tiny room, the fire enveloping them in an intense heat quite the opposite of the drafty sitting room.

“I don’t want to forget it,” he said. He approached him and tried to take his hand, but he was shaking so hard he forced his arm back down to his side. “Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

William saw John shake, and his face suddenly flooded with courage.

“John I know it may sound foolish...no it definitely sounds foolish, a man of my age asking you, for you too-” his voice quivered. 

William’s eyes were soft and glistening, his breath and chest heaving with anticipation. John watched a pale hand reach forward and close around his own wrist.

William took a step forward as their clothes brushed together.

“Please,” he whispered. “Take me to bed.”

John’s heart fluttered so forcefully in his chest that he had to dig his heels into the floor to steady himself. He gazed in wonder at the slender, aging man, still as graceful and beautiful as the day John had met him so long ago. 

“You don’t owe me anything,” John said softly. 

“I owe you everything.”

He leaned in over the shorter, sturdier man, his sweet baritone almost a rumble. 

“I lie in bed and night after night,” he said, his eyes drifting over John as a beautiful, pink flush worked its way up his long, pale neck . “And I think of you -” 

He stopped, and blinked slowly.

No,” he whispered. “Not think. Burn.”

His lips trembled with endearing hesitation.

“I burn for you,” he whispered. “I blamed buried memories. I blamed misplaced gratitude. I chastised myself for being unable to quell my most basic, primal instincts, like _he_ would have.”

He raised his arm, his large, graceful hand grazing John’s jaw. His palm settled, cupped gently around his cheek.

John felt his body respond to William’s touch, his desire roaring to life like stoked embers in his chest. 

“I then realized, it was all so simple,” he murmured. 

John managed to open his mouth, his words unsteady and breathless.

“What was simple?”

Sherlock swept his long fingers along the trembling man’s ear, smoothing his hair and gripping the back of his neck oh so gently. 

“I realized I would be perfectly content to burn for you for the rest of my days if I could have you, just once,” he offered gently. 

His curls pressed hotly against John’s forehead. 

John shook. His whole body twitching almost _painfully_ with desire.

“William -”

“Please,” he whispered. “I've reconciled the fact I will never take the place of him in your heart. I'll never be the wisest man you've ever known. I can't compete with the legend of Sherlock Holmes because I'll never win.”

His large, elegant hands swept over John's shoulders. 

“Can you find it in your heart to be with me, just as I am? Just once? I won’t ask you to stay again. I promise.”

William rubbed his curls against John’s forehead. He could feel the breath of the taller man on his lips. 

John's willpower was dissipating with each of those breaths. 

“I heard you that night, in your room,” William whispered. “Making love. I tried not to listen, but I couldn’t help myself.”

“You - heard us.”

William nodded and swallowed loudly, his eyes falling shut. “I pretended it was me coaxing those moans from your lips, that it was my name you were shouting in pleasure.” He exhaled. “I touched myself for the first time that night. I hadn’t realize...I didn’t know it could be like that.”

Willam’s breath smelled sweet from the wine. His eyes glistened with a mixture of want and innocence, a combination John found deeply erotic, and that was before the man had conjured the image of touching himself to the sounds of his and Felipe’s lovemaking. 

He brushed his fingertips along William’s jaw and palmed his cheek. 

“You so beautiful,” he whispered.

William closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if savoring the words.

That _mouth_. John had done unspeakable things to that mouth over the years. He licked his lips and stared at it. 

William shifted even closer, as if it would make it easier for John to touch him, to make sure sure he understood that he wanted this. 

He leaned forward and softly, so softly pressed his lips against John’s. John groaned at the contact and deepened the kiss. He was trying very hard not to think of William as untouched - a virgin, at least in his mind, for godsakes- but every tiny noise that he pulled from the man’s throat went straight to his cock with the words _I didn’t know it could be like that_ echoing in his head. 

John had ever so slightly swept his tongue over those welcoming lips when William suddenly pulled away. The shock of his absence was so sudden John froze in place, unsure what he had done to make the perfect moment disappear. William had done an about-face, and was leaned over himself in a painful coughing fit that lasted almost a full, agonizing minute. John ran to the kitchen to fix him a glass of his honey concoction, and William drank it down as soon as he was able. 

William wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand as he sat on the edge of the bed. He looked exhausted and embarrassed, and like he’d broken a magical spell that he was never to experience again. 

John gently sat down next to him on the bed. He carefully extended his arm around his narrow shoulders. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. 

William turned to him in surprise. 

“If I’d listened -” John grew choked on each word. He swallowed to keep his composure, but failed. “Bees. You wanted to keep bees, and I pushed you into something you didn’t want to do, because I thought…” He looked away for a moment to wipe the tears from his face. “The work meant everything to Sherlock. I thought if you had the work...but, that’s not it, either. I knew you hated it, yet I kept insisting, because I needed it. I needed you to be him because I needed to be me again. It was a selfish thing to do.”

“Perhaps,” William said softly. He clasped John’s hand between his own and rested it in his lap. “But when it came time, you risked your life to save mine.”

John shook his head. “It doesn’t make up for what I did. And now, I can’t make you better.”

“John, look at me.”

It took him a moment. He wiped his eyes again and wiped his nose, but he finally managed to turn and faced him.

“What do you see?”

John explored the depths of the face before him. He noticed the crows feet around those almond-shaped eyes had grown more prominent, and the laugh lines around his full mouth had deepened. His high cheekbones were flushed with color and the bright eyes that stared back at him were full of fire and longing. But there was something else he could detect as well, something he’d never picked up on before; a wisdom, forged from pain, and a peacefulness that came with submitting to life’s tragical whims. It wasn’t just Sherlock he was seeing anymore, but a man who had pushed beyond the point of his struggles to forge something - someone - new.

“I see you,” he whispered in amazement. 

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to that trembling cupid’s bow.

“I see you,” he whispered again. “Oh love, come here.”

William melted into the man, as if he wished to disappear inside of him. 

John pulled him close and held him, his lips on his neck and his ear, whispering soft declarations of love between gentle kisses and caresses. They fell back onto the bed, where they both held each other and kissed and stroked hair and arms and cheeks. William looked as though he would break, a kind of elated exhaustion that John only knew too well. The moment seemed too precious, as if the spell would break if they took anything too far too soon. 

John enveloped William into a crushing hug, holding him tightly against his breast, running his fingers through his dark curls and feeling the warmth of his body against him. 

William at last pulled away, searching his friend’s eyes as he hovered over him.

“You see me,” he quietly declared.

“Yes,” John whispered back, leaning up to take his mouth once again.

William closed his eyes as if to savor the contact. 

John then pulled away, and held the younger man at arms length.

“I can’t do what you ask,” he said, his breath heavy, his chest heaving with want. “I’ll never be able to make love to you just once.”

William unexpectedly laughed at the same time a sob broke from his throat. Tears spilled down his cheeks. “It’s all up for negotiation,” he said.

They spent the night kissing. They kissed on top of the covers, then underneath the sheets. They kissed with John on top, then they kissed on their sides. They fell asleep together in the bed, and even though the fire dwindled in the hearth, the two men stayed warm , nestled in each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically it's nothing but gratuitous sex from here on out, so the next chapter will be the last and will be posted in the next couple of days.
> 
> Thanks again for getting this far with me!


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